No one left behind
by csfcsf
Summary: Continuation of "You're my people now". This time, someone with ties to the extinct Moriarty's ring is circling Molly. Sherlock is the detective, John is the doctor, Mary is the sniper, and Molly has just been upgraded to a bigger role in a part she didn't ask for.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I don't own these characters (obviously)._

_A/N: So, now I'm doing sequels. (Hm, yeah, I appear to enjoy shooting myself in the foot.)_

_No disrespect to all the lovely people who were there for "You're my people now", but here I go again, back into the wagon. (I'm clearly insane!)_

_This story starts where the last one left off. I'll include here what I called the "extra plot twist" of the last chapter for refresh purposes._

_Why a sequel? Because I miss playing with the long running format. Only this time I don't have a basis already written. This is a more "publish as I go" type of approach, so it may take a while._

_In "You're my people now" it was all about Sherlock and John coming together, in a post S3 setting, to protect each other. For the sequel, here's an extra challenge: it's time to protect Molly, and have the three working – or failing – as a gang, as the danger spreads to all of them. Why am I writing a story with Molly in the forefront? Molly has been a tough cookie to work with, as far as characters go. She was still a bit unexplored last time._

_By the way, I'm not doing pairings. If you want honesty, here's why I don't do pairings: I suck at doing pairings. Doesn't mean the characters don't have secret infatuations, and the likes of that, and you can read what you want between the lines. It's just not my goal to string them along into a full blown romance. The result of which, left to my devices, would be terribly lame._

_So, I've bashed myself already more than I should. One is supposed to come across all confident and assured in these. (Too late.) -csf_

* * *

-ooo- |( extra plot twist )| -ooo-

At the door of 221B Baker Street, John had just separated himself from Sherlock with the promise of getting them some take away food before the little shop in the corner closed for the day. Either way, it allowed sweet Mrs H to mother Sherlock all she wanted after the dangerous situation of _her boys_, hopefully relieving John of having to be mothered as well. Now that the adrenaline had died down, John was feeling light, free, and overall happy with the world. Hardly the right frame of mind to accompany Mrs Hudson's feverish attempts to assure _her boys_ that all was going to be safe now. As much as he cared for her, he wasn't sure he wouldn't say something wrong to her, too careless, or just too happy.

John had just been going down the street with his mind on the ongoing drama series developing in Baker Street's living room, or kitchen, when he noticed something was off. He frowned, alone in the empty street. He had too much experience in dangerous enemy territory scenarios not to sense that he was being followed right then. He took out his phone from his pocket, trying to reach out for help. It was dead, and wouldn't come back on. The Thames had finally won. John wished he still had his gun, a faithful companion that always seemed to tip the scale back to the side of his good fortune. No point, now. He'd lost it for good. Whatever action took place in the next couple of minutes, John would have to face it with just himself to make it right. He tried to listen attentively, there was a faint electronic noise trailing behind him, from his shadow. An ear piece, perhaps. That meant backup. It wasn't looking good. He was walking down an empty street, completely deserted as it seemed, no help in sight. John fisted his hands in his pockets, getting himself worked up to fight by force.

Only he hadn't the chance. From somewhere behind him came the attack. Unpredictable, strong-willed, expert moves tackled him to the ground from behind. The pain as he hit the head to the asphalt dozed him, but John had too much adrenaline pumping in his veins now and he managed to shrug it off. He hit his assailant with his elbow, sending him off him for a second. He turned around quickly to face the man. He had dark clothes and his face remained in the shadows as he'd lunch himself back on John, this time stabbing him with the tip of a needle. Drugs flushed into his body, scarying him, stunning him. He punched the man off him, struggled to get up, had to punch him again at his new advancement, and staggered forward only to find he had suddenly lost all will, and his surroundings were growing blurry. Darkness descended upon him before he could register the collapse of his body against the concrete pavement. He probably should have screamed, in pain or for help, but training had taught him otherwise and the thought never occurred to him.

-ooo-

'Doctor John Watson', the man in front of him greeted in fake niceties, as he came to, bluntly tied to a chair in the middle of an industrial nowhere. They were both in the shadows, but specially John. He took advantage of the dark to try to beat the ropes binding his wrists together behind his back.

'Mycroft? What the- ?'

'Don't be vulgar, if you could. I brought you here for another one of our little talks, away from my brother.'

'I don't remember being tied up the last times. Is this a kink thing for you?' John provoked him.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. 'Still a tad vulgar, wouldn't you say?'

'Must be the drugs or the ropes sinking into my bones. Let me out.'

'Still saying the wrong things, John. Why don't you ask me why I brought you here?'

'I assume you're insane. I don't expect a good answer, therefore I won't bother asking.'

'I see you don't bring up my brother to try to emotionally blackmail me to free you.'

'I'm used to dealing with enough creeps on a daily basis to have learnt it's always about Sherlock, I stopped questioning you all.'

Mycroft pondered, tilting his head to the side.

'With you, I sometimes wonder if I'm talking to Dr. Watson, Captain Watson, or to John. It's like a multiple personality thing, that you can snap from one to the next just like _that'_ he snapped his fingers in the air. 'I assume I'm meeting the Captain. You're not looking selfless enough to be the doctor and not stunned enough to be simply John.'

'If anyone here is going mad with splitting personalities, I'd put my money on you, Mycroft. What is this show all for?'

'To persuade you.'

'To do what for you?'

'Nothing what so ever. Just to _see_.'

'See what?'

'The one you love for what they are.'

John frowned, he had stopped fighting the ropes behind his back before he'd even realized it. 'What are you on about?'

'Oh, hello there John.' With a flick of Mycroft's umbrella someone surveying them flashed on all the lights of the industrial complex. John flinched with the shock on his eyes. But he'd still catch a fleeting movement on an overhead balcony. He immediately glanced at it. A sniper, expertly placed to insure further cooperation (honestly, he was tied up and still groggy; a bit scared Mycroft?). Then his heart jolted as he recognised the person staring down from above, agony spreading over her face as well now. _Mary_. His Mary.

'Silly me, I believe you've met before', Mycroft said out loud. And to Mary he added: 'The payment as gone through, Mrs Watson. You can leave at any time, your job here is done.' And he leaned over to John, who was stone cold and dead white, and with a small blade set him free at once.

John gulped drily, he felt a lump on his throat, his head was buzzing, a cold wave running through him. 'Need you go through all this drama?' he questioned back, in a voice that grew stronger by the second.

'I am a Holmes after all', he answered smartly, but with little joy in his triumph. 'Can I offer you a ride home?'

'I dispense the ride.'

'Though so. I'll be seeing you around, Doctor Watson. Tell my brother the score is settled, and I'd never hurt you physically. Despite what he thinks I actually care about you, John. You've helped my brother very much, and I've kept that in mind.'

John didn't answer, nor did he understand at that point. Mycroft left walking slowly, John had his gaze focused on the overhead balcony as he got up from his restrictions, eyeing Mary Watson.

All of a sudden, he now knew who had been the benefactor shooter in the decadent warehouse.

He understood Sherlock's secrecy about the shooter's motives.

He learnt Mary's ongoing true nature, and why she kept it a secret.

And he knew where he stood.

Took more than that to shake John Watson's foundations.

-ooo-

Mycroft Holmes knew his plan had backfired almost as soon as he supervised the cctv live feed linked to the monitors on the dark car rolling the streets, away from the site.

It hadn't crossed his mind that John Watson was again so resilient. The man cursed and tainted by the war, by life and death of so many, betrayed by the woman he married – again. John found strength in every turn of the rocky road of life, and Mycroft couldn't help but respect the inner strength of the small-statured broad-shouldered blondish man. It was as if in a deranged anti-natural way, he thrived on what would have shredded to pieces far wiser men. Not that Mycroft wanted to destroy John. John was a pawn, a piece in a bigger puzzle that Mycroft needed to control, one that held answers and reactions from someone he cared far greater about – his little brother. Targeting John had intended to ensure that John would push Sherlock (and Mary) away, so to give Sherlock Holmes time to reassess the danger level he would willingly subject himself to in order to protect the army doctor. A manipulative play of emotions along the lines of what Sherlock and Mary had generated themselves, in the blank spaces unfilled by the information snippets that both had decided to keep secretive from John.

John, however, played to the sound of his own music, not for the first time. Mycroft could tell – and it was fairly obvious too – by the tilt of his head, the straight ahead focus of his demeanour, and the slow lick of lips that usually accompanied the conclusion of his thoughts, that John wasn't backing out. He stood still, waiting for Mary Watson to come down and explain her sniper ways. As Mycroft turned off the small monitor in the car, he scrunched his nose. Sometimes, too many times, he seriously wondered if John Watson was a born self-hurting masochist.

Somehow, only John knew the answer to that. Oh, yes, and Sherlock Holmes as well, of course. (The best friend.)

'Back to the office, if you will', he directed his driver, drily.

-ooo-

As Mary came down silently, John kept a calm in appearance waiting at the ground level. It was just like the calm before the storm.

Reminding Mary of that one time when she stepped down the stairs in that restaurant at 222 Marilebone Road. Hadn't John noticed he had chosen a restaurant set at number 222 to propose, and forever close the chapter in his life of number 221 Baker Street? But then again, Sherlock, that possessive mad detective had followed John from 221 to 222, and chose to reveal his alive status in the most ridiculous, overbearing and endearing way possible. Poor John, he looked close to a heart attack. But no, he was stronger than that. Mary had really felt for her man. She could see clearly in front of her, the hurt and betrayal, shattering the first glimpse of relief and happiness, masked by shock. That had been Sherlock's revelation. Now it was time for another, Mary's further revelation of a past she hadn't quite abandoned.

Well, it was hardly fair. Sherlock had had the advantage of being thought dead and of two years' absence.

Fine, so Mary hadn't faked her death. She had promised John that she had abandoned her past, and it turned out she hadn't. First she intended to keep it in check. Then slowly, but surely, she had fallen back in its trap. There was a fundamental change, however. One that she hoped John could still appreciate. (She was on the right side now.)

As Mary finally reached John, she could sense his twitching hand by his side, denouncing vulnerability. For the first time, she acknowledged that feeling of guilt inside her. Her silence had hurt John. Again. (Everyone he loved kept hurting him.)

'Baker Street', he said, sharply. Half a detour manoeuvre, half a direct request.

For John, there would be no talking. Not yet.

There was no walking out either.

-ooo-

The night was calm and tranquil at Baker Street. Even Sherlock had taken to rest, and slept profoundly in his bed. Upstairs, Mary was snoring lightly (she'd never admit to it, though) in a trashed bed, recently vacated by John.

The doctor had descended the stairs quietly, and lit the halogen white overhead lamp over the kitchen table. He was trying to keep his movements restrained and silent, so not to disturb the others. In fact, he'd be gratuitously satisfied if none of them found him there – or found him at all – until the morning lights came, refreshing his optimism. Right now, he felt exhausted, betrayed, physically and mentally drained. He had enough life experience to know he was in a chemical unbalanced low point, fuelled by shock and bodily exhaustion. And that a better light would shine soon enough, appeasing the night's doubt. He wished it wouldn't take too long, as he sat on the tile floor, his knees up, his back against the refrigerator door. He was force feeding himself a glass of water, he knew his back was sweaty due to the nightmare that had rattled him awake just before, making his damp t-shirt cling to his body.

After all the twisted hurtful events of the last hours, he could easily have dreamt of Sherlock's fall, or Mary's reveal at the empty houses. Instead, his overworked mind had grasped at childhood memories of his parents demise. He was brave and ready for the first nightmares, but what he had got instead had snuck up on him, shattering him from the inside out.

'John?' he heard from down the hall.

The doctor dropped his head to his knees. Damn it, Sherlock was up now. Time out was over. Time to go and be John Watson, then.

John got up from the floor before Sherlock had even reached the kitchen's entrance. With a carefully measured amount of smiling, John vacantly warranted: 'My fault, I guess I woke you up. Just came down for some water, everything is fine, go back to sleep, Sherlock. We've earned some rest.'

Sherlock frowned minutely, has he scrutinised his friend with his cold precise gaze.

'You had a nightmare, John.'

'How—?' (Never mind.)

'Not your usual ones', Sherlock added, unperturbed.

John didn't know how Sherlock catalogued the nightmares. As a matter of fact, he didn't know how Sherlock differentiated them. Before he could help himself he was asking him: 'How can you tell that?'

'You have tells for each one', Sherlock smirked, searching for a sign of complicity back. Only then did he add: 'And you are about to go sick on plain water intake, that's definitely new. I'd advise you to give up on the water for now, it's not agreeing with you.'

John nodded, too tired to protest against Sherlock's ever right deductions.

'I'll be fine in the morning', he promised.

'I know', Sherlock assured him. As John was moving into the living room, Sherlock spurted out: 'I should have told you, John.'

John didn't turn. In a cold detached voice that could have belonged to anyone, but seemed to originate in the blond doctor, John noted: 'The Great Sherlock Holmes makes mistakes sometimes. So there you go, hell must have frozen over.' Then he laughed a bit. 'It's okay, Sherlock, I know why', he added in a more sincere tone of voice.

'Still doesn't make it right.'

'Doesn't make it wrong either. I still trust you, Sherlock. And I still trust Mary. Even when the both of you are driving me up the walls.'


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Still some context pieces, the action impulse driving the story should come up soon – as soon as I figure it out._

_'Oh, perhaps I should mention that I'm not shooting Molly?'_  
_'Do people usually assume you shoot the characters?'_  
_'Now and then, yes.' (smirk) -csf_

* * *

-ooo-

Despite as exhausted as John Watson was – or because of it, wanting to hide it – the doctor had left Baker Street early in the morning to check his work at the clinic.

Sherlock had hardly heard him leave. Shortly after he'd hear Mary coming downstairs to the kitchen, in sleepy clumsy movements, knocking things about. Or maybe she was in a bad mood because John had left so early. He'd definitely be able to milk it for a few extra days off, had he tried harder. Logical conclusion? John was eager to embrace his everyday boring life...

...And to avoid a deeper conversation with his wife.

With a sigh, Sherlock got up, wrapped himself in a silk dressing gown and moved into the kitchen.

'Morning, Mary.'

'Sherlock. John has left already', she informed him.

'I see', he didn't elaborate.

'He's not even talking to me, Sherlock. I mean: John. John's not talking to me.'

_Who else?_, but the detective didn't correct the woman he knew was prodigal in cold reasoning every day of the week. Every day, but that one. That day she felt she was losing John Watson. Her world was crumbling apart in ways that Sherlock suspected John hadn't even realized, much less intended to impose on her. Surely he hadn't planned this guilt trip on his wife. Anyway John always forgave in the end, because he cared too much about Sherlock and Mary. He had admitted it himself once. But Mary wasn't feeling particularly assured this morning. Her paranoia might even trick her into believing he'd not come back.

When had Sherlock, the least balanced individual in the entire world (in his own opinion) become the Watson's confidant?

Mary was up for anything that stopped John from getting hurt.

She'd do anything to stop that from happening. She had failed. Away from her control, it had happened. Again. The same process. Lie upon lie, all small to start with, till the mountain of carefully crafted lies was too high to climb.

The woman standing in front of Sherlock, in 221B's kitchen, was scared. And it took a lot to scare Mary Elisabeth Watson (née Morstan circa 2012; another name before that, hardly the point).

'John's still talking to me', Sherlock reported, putting on the kettle. 'In fairness, he's not _that_ surprised that I kept things from him. Not exactly the first time. The thing about John is... he always finds his centre. Mary, he will forgive you for the lies, if he hasn't already. He's done it before. Sometimes he just takes... a bit longer.'

Mary rolled her eyes, in the detective's back. So much for a positive pep talk from the world's only consulting detective.

'I helped you, when you came back, Sherlock.'

He knew what it was. A cold manipulative payback time, from a desperate in love woman that had made one mistake too many.

'I remember. I'll talk to him.'

She nodded, as if expecting that answer.

-ooo-

DI Greg Lestrade came up the stairs leading to 221B at the same time Sherlock was getting his long wool coat on, ready to exit. The older man frowned, between exasperation and complicity. 'Sherlock, I've only just arrived. Think you can give me a couple of minutes?'

'I'm going to meet John, hurry up, Greg.'

'John? Is he okay?' Greg worried immediately.

'He's fine. He went to work.' Then, halting on his intense mood he saw the look on Greg's face. 'Well, this time I actually mean "fine", his shoulder is healing nicely. So is my arm, before you ask and we waste all the time in pointless conversations.'

The DI couldn't help but notice: 'If John is fine, and you're fine, why are you trying to go see him at lunch hour? Sherlock, you're missing him already, aren't you?'

Sherlock frowned, almost childishly. 'I don't _miss him_, Lestrade.' He was trying hard to convey his despise of need and such emotions, it just came out to Greg as childishly pouting of being read so easily.

'Right', the DI pretended to play along. 'And when is he going home with Mary?'

'Today.'

'Look, Sherlock, it's okay if you miss John. You two went through more than any person should have gone through, especially in the last week. You must have grown accustomed to having him around.'

Sherlock was playing all aloof now. With a vague gesture he assured the DI: 'John is an idiot, you should know. You sometimes put up with him as well.'

Greg smiled widely. Sherlock had a long history of calling people idiots, most of them weren't. 'Yeah, right, that's why you became a fugitive of the law to protect him.'

The consulting detective just glared back.

'And you came here because...?'

'Police statements aren't over yet, Sherlock. Want to swing by Scotland Yard this afternoon?'

Sherlock nodded more soberly. He knew how much Greg had risked to help them out, he was hoping those dreadfully boring statements could become some sort of pay.

'Give my best to John, Sherlock. And try to relax, will you? Maybe want to go fishing with me and some buddies from the Yard?'

'Something wrong with the fish aisle in the supermarket?'

'It's not about the fish, Sherlock! It's... Wait, you actually _know_ there is a fish aisle in the supermarket?'

'Mrs Hudson may have mentioned something.'

'Fine, you can buy us some pints when he go fishing, then.'

'I'm not going fishing, Lestrade!'

'You'll go if John goes.'

'John doesn't like fishing!'

'Yeah, he liked it last time. You should hang out with him more.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. John _and Greg_ were idiots.

He'd go fishing with idiots.

-ooo-

'What in the world are you doing, Sherlock? You can't just burst in the clinic, there could be a patient in here!'

'Nonsense. You always end the morning filing the patients charts.' Sherlock was ostentatiously dismissive, as he took a seat in the patient's chair. Frowning, he inquired: 'Why do you work here? It's so... ordinary, John.'

'So are bills to pay, we've been through this before, I recall... Anyway, how did you get past the receptionist?'

'I'm a detective, John!' he defended his work.

'So, you used Lestrade's identification again?'

'He was being annoying', Sherlock admitted the theft. 'John, you don't have to work in a place where just about everyone is sick.'

'Oh, really. What's your plan then?' John rolled his eyes.

'You and Mary can stay at Baker Street. Less one rent to pay.' That was bittersweet, and John tried not to focus on the fact the most distant genius detective in the world actually missed having his former ordinary flat mate around.

'My old room is tiny, Sherlock. And the minute you start shooting the walls again, Mary will lose it.'

Sherlock shrugged. 'I say she'd join me with her gun.'

'Sherlock!' he protested.

'Yeah, I know, I remember, I owe you a gun, John.'

John flapped his laptop shut. 'Forget the gun, please. None of us can get into trouble, getting caught with an illegal gun right now. The press was chewing us up just a couple of days ago, people will remember.'

'When is your birthday again?' Sherlock insisted, as if he had listened to nothing. John knew better, and worked hard to disguise his smile.

'Just get your shirt off, Sherlock.'

'What?' This time the detective actually got caught by surprise.

'You got shot in your arm, Sherlock.'

'Grazed. You were the one getting truly shot, John.'

'It's the same thing, Sherlock.'

'Hardly, John.'

'Just show me your arm, so I can check the healing already.'

Sherlock smiled softly. 'It's fine. A good doctor took care of it.'

John rolled his eyes. 'Are we turning mushy now?'

Sherlock lost his smile. 'Definitely not. Sentiment is for the weak minded.'

'Cheers!' John was sarcastic.

'I was agreeing with you, John!'

Suddenly John's expression froze in shock. 'Oh, not again, _we're at it again_. As we used to be. Back at when I was in Baker Street. We're... bickering for lack of a case.'

Sherlock's expression now copied John's very closely. 'You're right, I need a case. John, can you get me a case?'

'You're on your own, mate! And don't you dare shooting up the walls again!'

Sherlock got up in an energetic jump. 'Forget the walls, John. If you treasure your Hippocratic Oath, then you'll come with me to Baker Street. I'm Sherlock Holmes, I don't come to National Healthcare clinics, and I believe I was shot recently. If you don't get out of here with the excuse of a house call this very instant, I'll tell the world you're a lousy doctor who didn't even follow up on his own work.'

John smiled at the childish threat. 'What about my patients files?'

'Alphabetic order as a filing system is highly overrated, John.'

Said the man with the colour coordinated sock drawer. The doctor giggled, reaching for his coat and following him. He'd just file those at the end of the day. It was the least he could do for Mrs Hudson's walls.

-ooo-

They set about to a small fish and chips place, packed for lunch hour. Despite the noise that filled the greasy smelling place, it still felt like a second nature to the both of them, to only truly relax in anonymity by numbers.

'Talked to Mycroft this morning, John.'

John slowed his chewing noticeably. Finally he said: 'Kidnapped more people lately, as he?'

'John...'

'I don't have to like being kidnapped every fortnight, Sherlock.'

The detective frowned. 'I'm not apologising for Mycroft, John.'

'You needn't either. He's your brother, that's all. What he does is his choice.'

Sherlock smiled. There was something endearing about John when he was angry. His face was stern, even as he chewed a mouthful of chips. His gaze was dark and set heavily on his plate, demanding respect. But his red ears and pursed lips reminded him of a stubborn child plotting mischief for revenge. And Sherlock was sure to aid him in that, whenever aimed at Mycroft.

'Mycroft had a job offer for me, John.'

The doctor just raised an eyebrow. (That was fast, Sherlock was hardly recovered from his ordeal.)

The detective elaborated: 'A very interesting gang related case. Secret messages, ancient societies hidden from our contemporary world, the lot. Unfortunately, it was in China. I told him I couldn't possibly leave London just now.'

'You've turned the case down?'

'Obviously.'

'Because it came from your brother?' Sherlock sighed. 'Because it was far away from London?' Sherlock sighed again. John tried to understand the way the Holmes brothers worked: 'There was no case?' Sherlock just rolled his eyes, now, but a smirk was emerging. 'He created a case for you?!'

'Yes, obviously, John. Mycroft thinks you and Mary are a bad influence on me, and wants to have me take a break from the both of you.'

'That's... caring, I suppose.'

Sherlock had to agree. John finally realized:

'Mycroft orchestrated yesterday's show with Mary to push you away from me and my wife.' Sherlock nodded, more gravely. 'That was his perk in all that. He couldn't care less if Mary was in the active, he wanted to protect you from me and the danger I brought you in the last case.'

'Probably mostly separate me from Mary, and her past. Mycroft is fairly used to dealing with you, you don't bother him all that much. I've told you once. He's a rubbish big brother.'

John closed his eyes, feeling tired. He was startled by Sherlock's whispered request: 'You and Mary need to talk, John. You know that.'

He shrugged. He intended to. 'Mary lied to me, Sherlock. Yet again.'

'Yes, she took Mycroft's job offer. I seriously don't believe you think that Mary knew it was going to be you in that chair, John.'

With a fast glance at the restaurant area that made John lower his voice into a barely audible whisper, he cleared: 'She's back at being a sniper, Sherlock.'

His friend faked distance, as he noted: 'And for Mycroft, of all people. I did tell her he _is_ the British Government. There were plenty of governments and rogue organisations out there to chose from...'

John sighed. Mary was working for Queen and Country, he got it. If anyone should know about that, it must be a veteran army doctor.

'I just wish she had told me, Sherlock', he still confessed. His demeanour had changed, though. Sherlock's message had gone through.

Sherlock Holmes, marriage counsellor to ex-soldiers and ex-snipers; who would have thought?


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Chapter 3 (finally):_

_In which Sherlock still has his own set of morals subjected to the bottom-line results, and John still sees right through the disastrous blundering to grasp at the intentions behind it, ending up as an enabler to the endearing mad genius. Some things don't change._

_And in which Molly comes to find an ally in John, before telling Sherlock her secret._

_._

_I don't remember writing "You're my people now" without a certain degree of risk-taking in quite a few scenes. Mostly because I wrote it never to let it see the light of day. Things changed since. I have a pen name and everything! (Sometimes I still don't know how this has happened, but it feels comfortable.)_

_The opener of this chapter is no stranger to such risks. There are indeed limits I don't cross. I keep that silent non-descript pledge. Although to create a drive for the story I'll need to scare y'all somewhat in these next couple of chapters. -csf_

* * *

-ooo-

After lunch, Sherlock was still walking by John's side, as the doctor returned to his work at the clinic. They had become strangely accustomed to being next to each other after the recent events, and none of the two seemed to be finding it strange that Sherlock wasn't turning away abruptly to chase some case or that John didn't acknowledge that Sherlock walking back to the clinic to then exit was frankly pointless.

'John, I wish you'd just ask for sick-leave days. It'd make it all easier.'

Doctor John H. Watson was at the moment entering the clinic, Sherlock still trailing behind him.

'I'm needed here, Sherlock. I'm a doctor, remember?'

'This place is full of doctors.'

'I'm not just throwing you out right now because I want to have a look at your arm, Sherlock. Now act like a grown-up or I'll ask the nurse to take you to paediatrics', he threatened inventively. Sherlock smirked.

'Fine', the detective said, devilish, 'you asked for it.'

'Asked for what?' John worried too late.

Before he could make sense of it, Sherlock had lost his balance momentarily. John immediately launched forward to grab him and hold him up. As soon as he was taking a strong hold of his shoulders John felt a surge of nausea and weakness run through himself. If he didn't let go, they were about to both fall flat on the floor. Hell, he wasn't dropping Sherlock. With massive effort to keep himself in check, he managed to direct Sherlock to the nearest chair. His face was pale but his eyes were piercing him back. John gave him a reassuring half-smile.

Next thing he knew all he could see were those metallic eyes on him, all lateral vision was gone, things in front of him were running dark despite his growing efforts.

'John, focus!' he was ordered sharply, which helped for a couple of seconds, while Sherlock was pulling him to the chair next to his. Suddenly, John lost all contact with the world as he knew it.

Sherlock had to grab John tightly in his hands, as he felt the doctor's consciousness elude from his grasp. 'John, John!' Another doctor came running to the pair of them, and John was yanked briskly from Sherlock's gentle hold.

'We need a gurney in here!' someone called out.

'It's nothing', Sherlock said, in a weak stunned voice that surprised himself. 'Please not a gurney, he won't like it.'

'Sir, you need to keep yourself seated, we are going to have a look at you as well. Can you tell us your name?'

Sherlock glared at the male nurse trying to hold him back from staying at John's side. Hatefully, or so it felt to Sherlock, someone had helped John lay on his side on the clinic's attending room's floor, worried that in the chair he might fall and hit his head. Sherlock couldn't grab hold of the words and names and threats he wanted to give to the people who had the idea of allowing John to be a fallen hero. Fallen in battle.

(Sherlock was dead; John was going to take care of that.)

-ooo-

'John, how are you feeling? You've been unconscious for a good half-an-hour.'

John looked back at him attentively, all the signs of the previous weakness that had washed over him gone.

'How did you do it, Sherlock?'

Sherlock Holmes helped his friend raise himself in the cold examination table where he'd been resting under a blanket for the last hour, before he acknowledged John's words.

'Easy, John. As you helped me to the chair, I took my hand to your good shoulder, close to your neck, for support. It was easy to find the human pressure point over the artery, cutting off blood flow. All I wanted was to make you visibly nauseous. Instead, you ended up collapsing. I may have misjudged your current physical condition, John, or your stubbornness in helping me despite your own condition. I– I am sorry, John. I was just trying to help you. This way they'd be forced to give you some time off work, no questions asked.'

John rolled his eyes, and his head in an arch along the way. He was now facing away from Sherlock. 'That's insane, Sherlock. I could _ask_ for days off.'

'But you haven't. And you really need them.'

'I need them because you went all martial arts' Krav Maga on me, Sherlock. This is not what friends do to each other.' John's tone of voice was, if anything, sad; not angry at all. 'So, you faked your part? When I thought I had to hold you up?'

(Exaggerated it.) Sherlock pursed his lips, feeling guilty. He found he couldn't really voice the words, not when John was again looking back at him with those big innocent blue eyes. Probably didn't have to, John read right through him.

'I'm glad', John said, surprising Sherlock to his core. 'I'm glad you're actually okay', John translated, reading his shocked expression.

'It should be me in there, John. I never meant to...'

John cut him off, with a strained smile: 'I guess I haven't said it out loud yet: it's fine, Sherlock. I've known you to be a mad clot for a long time... How many days off did I get out of this? And next time will you give me a heads up?'

'Can't. You're the worst liar, John.'

'You're so dead, Sherlock...'

(Knew it.) 'You wouldn't dare, John.'

-ooo-

John Watson was cornered by Molly later that day, at John's practise, as he signed off the last papers to register his leave at the main desk.

As the last patient of the day exited the clinic, a smartly awkward pathologist was presenting her St. Bart's credentials at the glass door to the newest receptionist, hoping to gain access inside, after hours. John looked over the shoulder to the commotion and recognised her at once.

'It's okay, Helen, I know Miss Hooper. I even think I know why she's here.'

Helen gave him a carefully measured look, she was both Mary's friend and the wife of a serial cheater. Adding those facts, she was probably now suspecting John's good intentions. John found himself still frowning even as Molly was being ushered into the clinic. He didn't look at Molly that way. And Molly only looked at Sherlock in the past that way, not even anymore. Nothing added up in his mind. Molly was a good friend, that he knew well, and John hadn't forgotten how she had been supportive as John had it rough, days earlier. The usually quiet understated Molly had revealed herself as a force of nature in her own way, a strong wall of firm beliefs and a warm heart that John had only discovered at a dire occasion.

'Nice to see you, Molly', he greeted, ignoring Helen and her dark looks. 'I was hoping I'd have more time. I wanted to give you proper thanks for what you did for Sherlock and me, some sort of gift.'

Molly looked at John with some confusion in her big eyes. 'Don't be silly. I wanted to help. Did Sherlock put you up to this?'

John was shocked. Sherlock, thanking anyone? He had a rule about that, and he hardly broke it. 'No. I mean: yes. He's thankful too.'

She smiled, seeing right through his awkward hesitation.

'I'm glad to see you're looking better, John', she said, as he collected his things to leave. She waited patiently, ready to tag along. 'It's embarrassing, John. I came here because I wanted to make sure you were well, but I also needed some help, and now you'll think that was the only reason I came and...'

John stopped her worries at once. 'Not at all, Molly. What do you need? Is it a secret from Sherlock?'

She displayed a fake reassuring smile to the doctor. He was instinctively sharp. And fast to jump at this camaraderie secrecy of the two of them against the shrewd detective. She really hoped this wasn't still some residual effect of the Reichenbach plan. No, she really didn't want to think about that now, much in the least to bring it up in a careless way with John.

'No, not a secret. I'm telling Sherlock, too, after I tell you my story. I would like to ask you to back me up.'

'If it were', John said sharply, 'you'd be regretting to show it to us at a time when we have been going through so much, so maybe it works out well enough. I hope you know you can trust me, Molly. Anything I can do... Hell, anything _Sherlock and I_ can do for you, you've got it.' John knew Sherlock wouldn't fall short of any help either, might as well declare it to help ease the pathologist. They stepped outside, to the damp London evening together.

Molly was smiling honestly. 'You're a good man, John.'

He still sensed her hesitation so he offered: 'Can I get buy you a tea?'

'John, my life is in danger', she spat out at once. He froze, staring at her for a second, then he visibly pushed his shoulders back, squared his jaw and asked, sternly. 'Who?'

Molly remembered immediately that John was a man of action. No unnecessary questions. No How did she know, When did she become aware, Who did she suspect. Just one cold swift question, straight to the point. (Who, and I'll take care of it.) If only it were so simple.

'John, I may have made a mistake. Sherlock will certainly think so.'

'Whatever you need, Molly', he repeated, to put her at ease.

'John, I...' her gaze flowed across the indifferent streets and the people walking about as she confessed: 'John, I think I have been talking to Jim.'

'Jim...?' At first he didn't follow, then his eyes narrowed. 'Jim Moriarty? The deranged evil genius that "off-ed" himself at the rooftop of St. Bart's?'

She looked at him apologetically. 'Well, more like the Jim I briefly dated before I broke it up', she replied in a mix of dignity and shyness. Honestly, it felt like having to fess up to a protective older brother. _Who?,_ he had demanded to know; _my ex-boyfriend_, she was avoiding answering.

'I think you need to explain yourself, Molly. You been talking to the broken-record "miss me" creep that appeared in screens all over England? The man that strapped me in a bomb vest, that had snipers set aimed at me and Mrs Hudson and Greg and then he—'

'John, _please_.'

He took a deep breath immediately, cooling his temper. 'I'm sorry, Molly. That wasn't fair, it was wrong of me. Please, tell me how it happened. And then we'll need to let Sherlock in, as well.'

She nodded, more relaxed by his return to a controlled (slightly threatening to an absent person) expression.

'We talked online. He changed his name. I didn't know it was him, not at first.'

'When did you know who he was?'

'When I pressed him. He knew too much, things I haven't told him.'

'What is his name now?'

She eluded the answer at first. John didn't press, she'd end up telling Sherlock the name so he could investigate the man. 'If he had called himself Jim I'd have known faster. It was a struggle to trust someone like that after what happened with Jim, who he turned out to be...'

'Molly, Jim was capable of deceiving all of the nation, and make them believe he was an actor named Richard Brook. Of course he could fool anyone.'

'Not Sherlock. Or you. You've never doubted Sherlock.'

'He didn't try hard enough', John minimized.

'No, Jim would never be able to break your loyalty, that must have really rattled him.'

'He called me a Pet, once. He obviously never took me seriously. Not enough IQ, I'm afraid.'

She bit her lip. John couldn't see it, how even as a pawn in both Sherlock and Moriarty's game, he was respected by both of them. Molly had also been played. But Jim had abandoned her after extracting information on Sherlock Holmes. John had remained a player in that twisted game. A focus. Molly had never really understood why. If John was loyal and smart, so was she. Unless Jim had, somehow, started to care about her, and wanted to preserve her.

No, she had no good way of explaining _that_ to her adoptive older brother of the moment.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Here's a scary chapter for y'all (or my best attempt at it). As I promised, no one gets shot. -csf_

* * *

-ooo-

When John and Molly left the clinic, night had fallen over the streets of London, unifying them in its dusky shadows, pierced by the chaotic lights from street lamps, window shop displays and passing cars and cabs' headlights.

The streets seemed eerily deserted and cold, reminding Molly that her world had so suddenly been turned upside down. One moment her life was predictable and safe, the next she was sighing in relief for every minute past without catastrophe circling her.

But now she was telling Sherlock (and John) all about it. They would help her set her world back on track. Sherlock (and John) knew just what to do. Sherlock (and his blogger) would keep her safe.

Suddenly, she felt John's hand over her wrist. She looked down in surprise, then up to his blue eyes, and tense features. (Something was wrong.) He took something from his pocket in casual gestures and handed it to her. She tried to look down at the cold metal pieces without drawing attention to them. Car keys. John's car. Which was it? The nearest one, of course. She was thirty steps away from it, at best. John was slowing his pace to fall behind, protecting the rear, allowing her to reach safe destination first.

She kept walking in marked rhythmic footsteps over the damp pavement.

In an instant Molly knew someone was closing in on her from the shadows of the clinic's parking lot. Trying not to gasp, she took a hand to her coat pocket, searching for her phone.

_This is not a drill. Repeating: not a drill._ She kept muttering words under her breath, hoping they could tell her the right thing to do. Molly knew, instinctively, that all was going to come down very fast. Sherlock and Molly had anticipated these events possibly arising. They had talked about them. Reality was a different thing altogether.

Still with her fingers inside her coat pocket she discretely speed-dialled Sherlock's number. Then she reached for John's keychain and fisted her hand around it, allowing for one of the longer keys to exit between her knuckles, sticking out. Make-shift weapon of occasion. Making a good swing at the evil person more damaging. Sherlock had taught her that. He had also told her to run instead of confronting an enemy. Buy time. Help was on the way.

As she saw the first decided movement in the shadows, she dashed into a mad run. She knew the noise of her flat shoes against the pavement was a tell that she was running away from her pursuer, but there was nothing she could do about it. Smaller, and less strong, she still desperately put her every strength in the attempt to gain distance from the clinic.

She could hear someone running behind her, catching up. Maybe the keychain was still necessary that evening.

'Oi!' There was a determined warning yell from someone running at them. Even, light, furtive footsteps, fast tapping the street. 'Molly!' her name was suddenly yelled out with a new urgency. She recognised the voice and the tone. _John. Telling her to stop._ (Why?)

She glanced over her shoulder. John was just reaching her, heavy dark expression in her face, tight jaw, alertness coming out of every pore, and a misplaced smirk of defiance tinging one side of his face. As if enjoying what he was about to do to the person that had threatened Molly.

Molly wouldn't want to be a criminal facing John Watson.

Only then did she notice the second person coming out of the shadows up ahead. There had been another man waiting to grab her as she ran past one of the parked cars. John had sensed it, and stopped her.

John and Molly, still a few feet apart from each other, stood in the parking lot, surveying the dangerous men on each side of them. As protective as John intended to be, Molly still felt scared. She knew what the two men didn't. That John was vulnerable from his shoulder. But just a look at the blondish man told her he'd not hold back.

Inexperienced, her first reaction would be to pull her shoulder bag back against her, to create some sort of barrier, protection, in front of her. An immediate tell, she realized a second too late. A tell that she was frightened. Not that her fear was news to the two evil men. She was desperately thankful for John's presence there.

Molly approached John slowly, as he measured the two men, and was stared back at.

John stepped forward first, opening the confrontation on his terms. He didn't know, Molly realised too late, that she had sent a distress signal to Sherlock. Help would soon materialise. They just needed to hang in there.

One of the men took out a blade. John broadened that dangerous smirk, eyeing him. So they had been hired to only scare Molly off, most likely, given the weapon choice. John would never let Molly face the knife. He stood between them. In a simple fluid conjunction of movements, John was unarming the man in front of him. That's when Molly decided to make her escape. She took off on a mad run, trying to avoid the second man.

John glanced over the shoulder at her, stunned. He received a powerful swing in the stomach for his distraction.

Molly was almost grabbed by the man she was trying to bypass. He still managed to grab her shoulder bag and yank it back, making her lose her balance somewhat.

That slowed her to a halt, and before she knew it the man was too close. She madly swung her arm in front of her, still catching him in his cheek, even if she had closed her eyes, scared, the last second. Then she knew very well what to do, as the man was caught off-guard by her hit. She ran. She ran as the wind.

Her shoulder bag abandoned behind.

In a couple more expert moves, John knocked out the first man and disarmed the second that, very eloquently, took off when faced with a former army captain (even if unarmed). John had to bite back the urge to follow him and set him right.

'Molly!' he called her name, worried she was about to get herself into more trouble. He picked up her bag from the floor and ran after her.

He found her hiding with her head on her knees, sitting on a corner of the parking lot, shaking. For a second John felt out of his depth. All the adrenalin pumping through his veins did not prepare him to an overly emotional scared Molly. The next second he had at least gathered the thought of kneeling by her side and looking her in the eye. He took a gentle hand to her arm, where her bag strap had strained her muscle and tried to analyse it. 'It's not much of a big deal, we can have a look at this in Baker Street, Molly. We should get going.' He took his hand to her shoulder and squeezed it gently, trying to impress her with his care for her, his happiness that she was alright. And it shone on his selfless smile towards her.

She shook her head, biting her tears from falling. 'Sherlock. I called him. He'll send someone here.'

John took his phone off his pocket. Sure enough he had got the call for action as well, sent out to a bunch of different people from his network of contacts. "Molly. Now. –SH" Followed by Mycroft's blundered text: "Clinic's parking lot. –MH". John guessed Mycroft didn't recognise him with Molly at first. Maybe even thought John was a part of the enemy. And then the last text: "Called out the backup team. I trust you have Miss Hooper under your protection, John. Sherlock is expecting you both. –MH".

John rolled his eyes at one of the security cameras of the far end. A bit too late to issue orders and act like the leader, no? He fancied Mycroft might be watching them that very second on a live feed.

'Sherlock already knows, Molly. We need to go before he sends the entire Scotland Yard and a military assault team in here to extract us both.' She forced a brave smile on her face. He assured her: 'Oh, he really could, Molly. I've seen it being done before. And for you, Molly, he might even add a sniper team.' (John and Mary.)

She shook her head, that was so silly of John, trying to make her smile like that.

As they reached his car, John leaned in against the door slightly. 'How about you driving?' he asked cheerfully.

She frowned. He didn't look well at all, under the scrutiny of the overhead lamplights. Job done, the soldier was falling against the car. Molly nodded at once. She tried very hard not to play in her mind all the alternative scenarios of what could have happened that night, hadn't John been there with her. She had a good support network, that was what she needed to consider at that point. And breathe deeply. The worst was over now. She was in good hands, the best.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: English is still not my first language; proceed with caution.  
As I'm editing this, I've just received word _(for which I'm extremely thankful) _of another repeatedly misspelled word in this other story. Once again, I just stare at the screen, dumbfounded, and mutter "of course it's not like I wrote it!". Yeah, automatic spell checks don't detect everything, especially when that other word exists with a different meaning. I'm seriously frustrated for putting you through this. Sincere apologies in advance. -csf_

* * *

-ooo-

As John and Molly were on their way to 221 Baker Street, Sherlock was already eagerly waiting for them at the exterior door. He was ignoring all the passers-by giving skewed looks to the man with the inside-out t-shirt in the cold night. The silk dressing gown had been neglected upstairs from the moment he had received word of Molly's situation. Her distress signal had reached him in the middle of a consideration over two different science experiments for his blog. One was noisy, the other created a heavy curtain of smog. Mrs Hudson would disapprove of the both of them. Molly's call had put all that into a sudden halt, and into perspective. He immediately got in touch with Mycroft, following the developments eagerly. After it was all over, and he knew for sure that Molly and John were safe and heading to 221B Baker Street, he had come down to greet them as soon as they arrived. That was almost ten minutes ago.

Not even the cold night air would push him away from his guarding position at his door, as he scanned the street for the elusive pair of friends. The passers-by kept eyeing him with masked confusion, but he paid no more attention to them after he had deduced their degree of threat. Sherlock was no stranger to be looked at, commented, pointed at, and worst. Why would he start paying attention now that two of the people he cared about the most had been targeted by some unknown individual?

John Watson. He could take care of himself. Even experiencing some residual level of weakness from his recent hardships, he was still a serious adversary for anyone handling a knife (Mycroft had sent the video files). Sherlock was thankful for the sloppiness of the attack, so badly planned.

Molly Hooper was the one to worry about first. Caught up in another trap for John (seriously, the good doctor couldn't let a week go by without being in danger from a different avulse criminal?) she had cause for being distraught and scared. Further protective protocol should be discussed in conjunction with Mycroft (alas, the family reunion being a necessity, unpleasant for both Holmes brothers) to assure her safety at all times from then on.

Not that Molly Hooper was completely useless. She knew what to do. Sherlock had long trained her for that kind of a scenario, knowing that his proximity to the pathologist, if ever to be exposed, could bring her life-threatening danger.

He had hated to taint her innocence in the world, change who she was, but she needed to be aware. Not of the entirety of the danger that could befall on her. No, that would be too heavy a burden to ask her to carry for him. Rather to understand that her association with Sherlock Holmes had changed her life forever. If not before, then from the day she had assisted him to begin defeating Moriarty's network.

She had followed through every practise bravely, imprinting Sherlock with confidence that the burden she'd carry would not be too heavy on her. She was no John, a former soldier, for instance. Nor a Greg (from Scotland Yard) or a Mary (active duty sniper). She was a Mrs Hudson. Someone to protect and anticipate every single eventuality. To create a bubble of protection and a façade of cold disinterest to the world so as to minimise the risk. But the risk to Molly was already very high, since Reichenbach, if word got out of her vital importance to the plan. He had made her keep their secret from everyone, and so had he.

-ooo-

Molly and John emerged from the corner, at last. In the darkness of the evening, Sherlock scrutinised them intently. Molly was unharmed for the exception of a stiff upper arm, three days worth of slight discomfort and nothing more. The fear that had tainted her features, on the other hand, had left residual shock traces that would take far longer to be erased.

Why hadn't John stopped her from getting hurt?

By her side, John was in army mode, if he ever had one. Stern, alert, danger in his features. Clearing the perimeter as he crossed the corner with Molly, she was unaware of how he was studying every window and balcony, the main lines of sight, the hiding places to duck for cover if need arose suddenly. All the while under a gentle polite smile and some small talk. Probably about tea brands. John knew a lot about tea brands.

'Sherlock!' she recognised him with a relieved smile, that she bit, trying to keep it from expanding further. Sherlock wondered if there was a trace of guilt in her bit lip, and what could it mean.

John intervened at once: 'Let's go upstairs, shall we? I want to have a look at your arm, Molly, it'll probably bruise in the next couple of hours.' To his friend he'd add: 'We're fine, otherwise, Sherlock. But we need to talk this through.' Sherlock nodded, allowing John to lead for now. 'Maybe we can call Mary and Greg to come meet us here as well?'

'Already did, John.'

He nodded, still slightly military and curt, before he stepped forward. He entered 221 first, allowing Molly to be in a protective custody between him and Sherlock, at the end.

-ooo-

Mrs Hudson was downstairs arranging everyone some tea and biscuits from 221A's kitchen. Mary Watson and Greg Lestrade were on their way over, no attacks made on any of them. Molly was holding some ice to her bruising upper arm, and denying further intervention from both Sherlock and John, fussing over her in clumsy ways.

'Just hold the ice there, Molly.'

'Not for too long, it might burn her skin, John.'

'It's just for a bit. It'll be fine, Sherlock.'

'It's been there for sixty seconds already. The average time for a human skin cell to freeze its water content and rupture the exterior membrane is of—'

'I'm a doctor, Sherlock, remember?' he cut the scientist off. 'I know what I'm doing.'

'You clearly don't', Sherlock bit back. 'Molly got hurt.'

John blinked, frozen, for a couple of seconds. He willed himself to silence, but took the opportunity to get up slowly with the excuse to get a new cloth, less soaked through, for the ice.

Sherlock frowned as he watched him leave silently, eerily quiet. He had touched a nerve in John. He hadn't intend to, it just sort of came out like that. The detective knew he had done John wrong. The overly-sensitive-to-criticism-about-not-protecting-people-well soldier was taking Sherlock's insult to heart.

The bathroom door was shut. Instead of coming back out with a new hand towel, John had just locked himself in.

Sherlock frowned further. John was hurt, that was a given. But sulking over it was not in his usual repertoire.

And if he ever sulked these days, it was dramatically. Not stoically absent. That had happened only in the early days, when they were still learning to work together. What had silently happened now just didn't add up. Unless...

'Molly, was John hurt?'

She was startled by the intensity of his question. Molly nodded. 'He told me he's fine. I think he got punched in the stomach. He didn't complain at all.'

He wouldn't. Not while on soldier mode. Damn John Watson's stoic personality.

'Hold the ice up for more twenty-three seconds, Molly, no longer. I'm going to check on him.'

Molly watched Sherlock leave with apprehension. He looked worried, and tired. Not what she had hoped for. She had come to think of his abilities close to those of a genius super-hero. And to see him so human and frazzled was borderline intimidating, reminding her of the dangerous situation her life had just spiralled to.

She needed to let it out of her chest. _Her story._

-ooo-

'John, I'm coming in', Sherlock warned, through the closed door. There was no response. 'Haven't you had enough sulking already?' he voiced out louder. Still no answer. Sherlock took his hand to the knob on the bathroom door and turned it. It wasn't locked. The man who was a doctor in pain wouldn't do that basic mistake. That didn't mean he wouldn't be angry at Sherlock for barging in on such a private setting. 'John?'

John was sitting on the floor, knees up, arms wrapped around them, back against the bathtub. Something in his stare, though, instantly told his friend that John was miles away, too far away, at that particular moment. He hadn't heard his name, or the knocking. His cobalt blue eyes were glazed, his face was exceedingly pale under the bathroom lights reflected over the white tiles floor.

'John, are you not well?' Silly question, he certainly didn't look well, why ask _him_? (Because he's the doctor there.)

'I'm fine, Sherlock', he answered, monotone, expressionless. Sherlock was fast becoming less and less convinced of that, but he kept it a secret for now.

'Where were you hurt?'

He shrugged, as if he really didn't care. Then he lowered his head over his knees, closing himself further from the world.

'John, that is hardly fair. I'm not a doctor, a detective shouldn't have to play doctor to a doctor. Just tell me what's wrong.'

'Nothing', he stated clearly. Still immobile. At least he was talking. 'Check on Molly, please. Then come back when she's calmer. I'm not important.'

'Of course you are', Sherlock replied reflexively. He hated when John's modesty or stoicism, or plain self-doubt made him sell himself short. 'You are important, John.' What was wrong with his friend? Why all of a sudden so vulnerable when he usually rolled Sherlock's nasty remarks off his thick skin with ease? Then a possible solution to the mystery hit him. 'John, you are pale, shaky, nauseated, and exhibiting instinctive shying away behaviour. What if you have internal damage from your confrontation?'

'I don't. I would know.'

'I'm worried, John.'

'Mary can check me out when she gets here. She's a nurse', he compromised.

'Mary will be here in no time, John', Sherlock tried to imprint confidence in his friend. 'Should I call an ambulance already?'

John lifted his head from his knees, scowling at his friend. 'Honestly, Sherlock, will you just let it go, and check on Molly?'

'I've just checked Molly, her arm is fine.'

'Her arm being fine is the only thing about her right now that is fine. She is scared and alone. She needs comforting, and not from me. You know her better than me. You need to go back to the living room and take care of her, Sherlock. Right now.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. John's selflessness was very aggravating. How he had ended up with a friend with such an impossible quality, was beyond Sherlock's understanding.

-ooo-

John was back on his tapestry armchair, looking more composed. Mary had cleared him medically of the worst scenarios (not without lecturing him throughout) and both her and Sherlock kept an eye on him.

Molly had taken Sherlock's armchair, that was far too big for her stature. Somehow that made her feel like a child, in a world of overgrown proportions, more protected, as she was letting her full story get known to her audience.

On the other side of the living room, Mrs Hudson and Greg were sharing the long sofa, with similar understanding expressions.

So, at that moment, Mary and Sherlock were the only ones standing and pacing at the centre of the room. They remained silent, as Molly carried on her narrative, further than she had with John, earlier:

'He called himself Sebastian as we chatted. I mean...' she blushed, as a result of her own mind, but refused to explain herself. Instead she diverted: 'I believe Jim goes by the name of Sebastian Moran now. That's how he talked to me. And he may have picked up a few things from you, John. He's playing an army captain, now. Captain Moran.'

On the armchair, John was affronted by the news, clearly. Queen and Country were not things to mess with. He hadn't risked his life in a foreign land, seen good people give their lives for the cause, to accept easily that someone would pretend to be the end result of immense effort and dedication, just to make a mockery of it.

Greg insisted, questioning her like a witness in a crime scene, gesturing like he had an invisible notebook in his hands: 'Are you sure it's James Moriarty? Couldn't it be someone he confided in, Molly?'

She shook her head. 'I believe it was Jim. I should know, right?'

'Not necessarily. He played you, like he played everyone else as Richard Brook', Greg warned her.

'He used his real name with me.'

'He had nothing to hide yet. He wanted to give Sherlock clues that lead to him, as well.'

She finally lowered her gaze. She didn't enjoy feeling like she had been used by a world class criminal mind.

'You ended it, Molly.' John's voice pierced her negative thoughts, shattering them. What had he said? Well, yes. She, Molly Hooper, had told Jim it'd be best if they would just be friends from then on. She had set him straight.

'Yes, I did.' (Thanks, John.) Only then did she realise that his words had a double meaning, too undefined, due to that particular audience set between them. _Molly had ended it._ Had John meant ending Moriarty's evil network as well? For what she had done to help Sherlock put in motion the plan that— No, she couldn't talk to John about the Plan, or how it had shattered the man that had just defended her in the parking lot, despite his own physical vulnerability. If she had it her way, what had gone on in terms of planning Sherlock's fake demise would be forever a secret she'd carry. Sherlock was the one to open that can of worms if he felt like it. Which the detective clearly didn't. Sherlock didn't tell everything to John. There were a few things he had only told Molly. She had become his confidant just right before he left to chase the European ring. He had quit the manipulative bastardry and just been himself for once. The man she always had seen on the inside. Molly was glad she was the one he had trusted. Given the consulting detective's history, full disclosure, confidence and empathy weren't features he was comfortable showing to anyone other than someone very special.

Molly had become special.

She still was, as this assembly around her, designed to protect her, proved unequivocally.


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Apologies once again for the delay. Real Life is being complicated. -csf_

* * *

-ooo-

Mary pondered slowly, given that she was the only one that hadn't been around when Jim Moriarty had made his appearance around four years earlier: 'Why would Jim circle Molly now?'

It was just like Mary, to shoot straight to the core, no sugar coating. John would glance at her, frowning. 'Don't just call him _Jim_, please. He was a madman that killed people because he wanted to play with Sherlock's mind. He doesn't deserve a first name basis.'

Molly glanced back at John. What he had told her about the pool incident came to mind at once. There was a lot that Mary hadn't been there to witness first hand, but, oh, she knew about those events. She had made herself to know. How Jim Moriarty had circled Sherlock, heightening their battle, wasting chances to finish the detective and blogger off, just because he felt like toying with them, each time coming closer and more disruptive, using other people as pawns to get to the final challenge of his mind, Sherlock. Then how John had ended up watching his best friend jump off to the street bellow because of Jim Moriarty's trap, the one that Sherlock hadn't escaped. Jim was Sherlock's to defeat in the end, he had always been. Two arch-enemies engaged in a battle of opposites and continuities intertwined. John had been a miserable pawn in Jim's game all along. A pawn that insisted in his dignity, calling the scum psychopath by his last name, as if refusing to allow the madman's importance to show through.

'Moriarty, then', she acted like she agreed. Deep inside, she knew he was _Jim_ to her. An abject threat she'd crush before Sherlock could even get his hands on him, if she had the chance. _Jim_ had caused too much pain to John and Sherlock. Mary would set those wrong rights. She would shoot _Jim_, or eliminate _Jim_ in any other feasible way, as soon as possible.

The fact that he was a world class criminal didn't scare Mary Morstan Watson away. Besides, Sherlock had been a dear already, and nearly exterminated Jim's network of contacts.

Greg answered the original question: 'Maybe he chose to approach Molly to try to gather information on you two' with his invisible pen and notebook hand he pointed from Sherlock to John 'before revealing himself further.'

Mrs Hudson joined in: 'After that nasty television screen bit he has been very quiet, hasn't he? And he was such a nasty fright that day. All London was in an uproar about it! You should have seen Mrs Turner, coming right up to me and asking me if Sherlock wasn't going to fix that soon, she had a reality show to watch after supper... Then nothing happened! I really thought we would have heard the last of that awful man for quite a while', she shook her head sadly. 'But bad things don't just go away because we close our eyes to them, do they?'

Sherlock noticed both Watsons looked a bit lost in their gazes, and Molly looked drained. It was time to take extra steps of protective measures. For his friends. With a sigh, he wondered when that had actually become a reality. That Sherlock Holmes had _friends_. It had snuck up on him. With all the secret caring, worrying, tending to. However that had come to be, it was now an undeniable reality, and Sherlock struggled to keep afloat from all that _caring_, still somewhat strange to him. He wished he could set John's shoulder troubles straight, that he could return Mary to a peaceful marriage, that Molly could feel as safe as she deserved after having exposed herself to danger willingly in order to save Sherlock's life. In truth, Sherlock had followed Mycroft's advise that caring was to be sidelined because he knew how painful caring could be. If only the detective could still step back and watch the events unfold, calmly, objectively, like pawns in a chess game in his control. Then he would be a better detective, and everyone there would benefit from the end of the upcoming nightmare.

'Sherlock.'

Strangely, it was John that had come out of his daytime reverie and suddenly had materialised by his friend's side, handing him a cup of tea. How could Sherlock be surprised? John knew about abstractions and faraway wondering minds due to exhaustion. He could tell the signs. He was not only a fine doctor, he knew first hand. And he was sure to keep Sherlock in the right path now.

Sherlock gave a hint of a thankful smile, looking straight into his friend, trying to convey the message that he was doing fine. Not even half-convinced, John unlocked his cobalt blue eyes from him and turned back to the priority in the room. Molly Hooper. There was also something in his posture that Sherlock recognised only from a few times in all the time they had known each other. Captain Watson was overlapping the doctor. Somewhere in John's mind, a military plan of action was being etched.

-ooo-

Molly Hooper felt like she had been caught in the whirlwind of a hurricane, spun around till she didn't know where to turn to, and suddenly been dropped from high up to land on John's old room from 221 Baker Street.

At least, that was what Sherlock had told her. That this had been John's old room, before Sherlock's departure, before Mary had come into John's life. As she looked around her to the bare walls and modest furniture, she wondered why Mrs Hudson had stripped it down so much after John's departure. Why remove all traces of the former tenant if she had no intentions of letting out the room so soon. Let's face it; Sherlock wasn't liable to allow anyone else to come share the flat with him (how he and John had once managed was beyond her), unless except for Molly, under the current circumstances.

Surely the room had been very different when John was around. Probably not the messy inventiveness from downstairs, with Sherlock's stuff, but the man who was a doctor and a friend to Molly would certainly feel lost on such a stripped empty cell-like room.

She opened one of the dressing drawers and looked inside. A lost old oatmeal jumper was there and a crumpled photograph. Before she knew it, Molly had her finger smoothing the paper to check the glossy surface for recognition. Sure enough, there was John Watson, just about centred on the picture, among the line of fellow soldiers smiling for the camera. There were six of them, all in their field uniforms, in a dull camouflage colours pattern. Some of them were more serious looking, and the fear of being new and inexperienced showed through, touching a cord on Molly. Not John. He was smiling, a dangerous smile that filed the tent. Not a happy smile, but the smile of a man gambling away his life and enjoying it. Any other day she'd have said that wasn't the John Watson she knew. (Not anymore.)

Molly recognised that smile, she had seen it that night, at the parking lot. The smile of a man with nothing holding him back; a man who'd give his life for a cause if necessary.

Suddenly Molly felt very cold. May have been her own exhaustion. May have been the comprehension of the dangerous frame of mind that John had rallied himself into that evening, to protect her.

He had Mary now. And Sherlock. He had many people who needed him. As much as Molly was appreciative of John's protection, she would not stand for its possible consequences.

Sherlock had seen that. He had seen in the man returning wounded to London the same lonely soul he was himself, only better at disguising it. The perfect social mask was etched on the doctor every day.

Molly understood now that Mrs Hudson hadn't stripped John's room bare when he had moved out. Now Sherlock's cluttered living room didn't seem so overbearing anymore. He had offered a grounding space to the man who had spent the last years in battle camps. The man who didn't understand the luxury of choosing which mug to pour the tea in, or the concept of decorative pillows in the long sofa, or why Sherlock kept old floppy disks (who uses those anymore?) on the left hand side display cabinet by the kitchen.

Sherlock had volunteered what he had, all the cluttered expression of who he was, to a man who had returned to London alone and feeling useless. He had grounded John Watson, former army doctor. And he had taken him on his own exciting world as he had never done with anyone else before.

And John had saved Sherlock back.

Molly knew it. Sherlock had confided in small, broken up pieces of information over the years. He'd never admit it, but Molly knew that John had been essential to Sherlock. John had focused this lost spiralling out-of-control genius like it was the most natural thing in the world to do. John was the only person that Sherlock had let in to some of his darkest secrets, yet Molly seriously doubted John had ever realised his own importance. Not that John would ever take credit over what he had done. He felt it natural.

As Molly took a seat on the mattress of the strict and function oriented old bedroom of John Watson, she felt as much of a polar opposite from the former soldier as it was ever possible. The new tenant of "the room upstairs" was feeling oddly alone, and scared. Even though her safety was assured by the best in London (Sherlock and John, possibly also Mycroft Holmes' team) what she needed right now she couldn't really get. An understanding shoulder to lean on. That certainly wouldn't be soldier John or revenge-mode Sherlock. She felt very alone, in a stripped bare old room.

Knocks on the door surprised her, yanking her from her thoughts. Mrs Hudson was peeking from the door, with a motherly smile on her face, and a nice cup of tea.

Molly couldn't help but smile, as a flood of thankfulness washed over her.

'Mrs Hudson, you shouldn't have!'

'Nonsense', the landlady set her straight at once. 'I know how my boys are. Leaving you here all alone', she shook her head, 'I need to have a conversation with John.'

Molly accepted the steaming cup, wondering: 'Are they still having a reunion downstairs?'

Mrs Hudson confided, as she proceeded to tidy up the drawer Molly had left open: 'Sherlock, John and Mycroft. Top secret, too. They closed the kitchen door, can you imagine that? As if they thought it'd keep me from hearing if I wanted... As I was preparing your tea, Sherlock and John were at it about you, Molly.'

'Really?'

'Sherlock wants to get you out of London, John wants to keep you near at all times. And Mycroft was all puffed-up from being downright ignored by those two.'

Both women smiled knowingly.

Mrs Hudson halted her ways with the oatmeal jumper and picked up the photograph that Molly had left studied. 'So this is where this went. I wanted to show it to Mary just the other day. Doesn't John look handsome in here?'

'Mrs Hudson, why didn't John return to the army once his shoulder healed?' Molly wondered. 'Was it because of Sherlock?'

Mrs Hudson acted lightly as she explained: 'I don't think Sherlock would have let him, you know. He and Mycroft would certainly have a say about that, mind my words. But it won't come to that.' She smiled, signifying she wouldn't break her boys confidence any further, she'd keep what she knew as a secret. Molly just looked at her, curious, detaching herself from her own troubles for the first time that night.


	7. Chapter 7

-ooo-

As the DI left, Mrs Hudson was showing Molly a place to rest. That wouldn't deter the lively discussion going on at 221B's living room.

'Mycroft.'

Sherlock's voice pierced the flat as a lightning setting the start of a tropical thunderstorm. Immediately Mr and Mrs Watson glanced at the open door of 221B.

In controlled movements, John stood up from his armchair and took his empty mug to the kitchen. He passed Mycroft with a polite nod, but a very cold attitude.

'John', the most political Holmes greeted back, with a prudent amount of smiling. John may still prove useful. He had this nasty knack for getting himself involved in things and people bigger and beyond his understanding. Also, over the years Mycroft had found in himself a soft spot for the former soldier, one that grew out of the respect for the similarity of single-mindedly pursuing the sake of Queen and Country. Obviously, Mycroft went at it efficiently through carefully crafted mind processes, where as John was more the battlefield sort of her Majesty's employee. And of course, he was the husband of Mycroft's latest addition to his personal team; Mary Watson, formerly—. No need to dwell on that. She had been cleared for his team, under watchful surveillance. After all, Mary had turned on governments and occasional terrorists as former employers. She could easily do it again to Mycroft. Not even Sherlock could keep her in check.

The detective raised an eyebrow and gestured vaguely, as if bored by the time Mycroft was taking to talk. 'I believe we have business to attend to, Mycroft.'

'Naturally. You seem to require my help yet again, Sherlock. Shall we discuss it here?' he pointedly looked over to Mary, that death-stared back at him.

'I do not wish to linger in this conversation, Mycroft. Take John's chair, you already drove him away.'

The older Holmes smirked, but didn't take the bait. He kept himself up, as John returned to his chair with a hot cup of tea. 'Caught the bad guys, yet?' John opened.

'I believe you let one of them escape, John, and as for the other, he's in police custody at A&amp;E. You were not kind to him, John.'

The former soldier morphed his features impishly. 'I made sure he can talk when he wakes up', he stated. Sherlock glanced at him for a second. Had he meant that he had tackled his opponent with cold blooded movements that didn't injure his trachea, or did he just mean that he checked his vitals by the end of it? Knowing John, probably both.

The detective added: 'I have here a set of keys containing traces of DNA of the missing attacker.'

Mycroft assured: 'I'll make sure it reaches a proper lab with priority treatment.' Sherlock couldn't perform DNA tests in 221B's kitchen, and St. Bart's was out of reach if he wanted to keep Molly close to them. He couldn't take Molly to her workplace while she was in clear danger.

Mary was following the Holmes brothers' interaction carefully. Now she was sure to ask the right brother:

'And your plan, Sherlock? I know you already have a plan.'

Sherlock smirked in face of Mycroft's expression. She was so right.

-ooo-

Suddenly alone, John and Mary faced each other, as they stood by 221's exterior door, saying their goodbyes for the night. In mutual agreement, they had decided that Mary would go back home for the night and John would stay at Baker Street to assure extra protection after the events at the parking lot. For the first time in all that day they stood next to each other and faced the recent events that Mycroft Holmes had forced unfolding on them.

It felt weird that only a day ago they were sharing a blissful lie. It felt like so much longer, now. Mary wished she could turn back the time and just have it back where she had left things unspoken. John would still be blissfully happy trailing around Sherlock, protecting his friends, doctoring his patients. For Mary, keeping John in the dark had been about protecting him from his fears. Now that John had been exposed, things could never go back. She had tainted his innocence in a way that abused the broken soldier to his core. Other people might find it easy to turn the page after the events. John was struggling, it was painfully obvious to the woman who loved him, and who incidentally had been the cause of it all.

'John', she started, her expression a mask of self-control just a tiny crack away from crumbling apart.

'We need to protect Molly', he focused on the task at hands, the soldier part of him taking over.

She smiled, despite herself. That was John through and through. The man she had fallen for. Placing others before himself.

'You need to protect her', she agreed by repeating his words. English was sometimes a _funny_ language. "_You"_ meaning both singular and plural. Not like that time she had gone undercover in France, near that place where she had grown up in her teens and... No point. In plain English she added: 'We will'. She was making sure to include herself. John and Sherlock weren't alone.

He nodded sharply, still in his military frame of mind. 'No more secrets, Mary', he asked in a stern voice but his blue eyes were uncertain, shining with a vulnerability that she hated seeing in them. (Being its cause.)

'No more lies', she promised him, as each stood their ground in 221's front door, facing each other quietly. English being a _funny_ language indeed. He had asked full disclosure of her, and in return she had agreed only to keep her words truthful. Had John noticed it? Apparently not. John was _funny_ like that as well. Trusting to his core, and yet always a soldier in battle. Mary wanted to keep him safe from all the things that may harm him. So maybe Mary had become _funny_ as well now. For John, she would.

-ooo-

Molly came downstairs a few hours later. She had been sure that the flat would be empty except perhaps for Sherlock fussing about some scientific experiment. Instead she'd find John sleeping in the long sofa and a quietness eeriness in the flat. Eerie, for Sherlock was up and in the kitchen area, acting quietly.

The pathologist found her way into the kitchen, through the tall glass sliding doors, keeping herself silent as well.

'Hi, Sherlock, I couldn't sleep', she explained immediately.

The detective was sitting in front of a laptop, peering at the screen. Molly wondered vaguely why he wasn't at the living room. Surely he was too quiet to wake John up.

'Nightmares', Sherlock said before Molly could say a word. 'He really needs to rest.'

'Does John usually have nightmares, then?'

Sherlock glanced at her as if her confirmation question had crossed an invisible threshold of John's privacy, or as if he had just found out how little did she know him. Sure Molly knew doctor Watson, faithful blogger, and all the persona he created socially. But she was oblivious to things that only Sherlock (and perhaps Mrs Hudson) knew.

The detective in a homely dressing gown didn't answer Molly's question. (Making it obvious.) Instead he turned the laptop towards her in one swift movement. Molly's brown eyes widened in surprise, as she recognised the page. Her personal page, from the chat room she had used to communicate with Captain Moran (aka Jim Moriarty).

'That's private', she muttered, stuttering only a bit.

'Not anymore', Sherlock commented drily.

'I can answer anything you need to ask me, Sherlock', she insisted, in her best expression of hurt dignity.

'I need to study the character and speech pattern of this Moran person, by analysing his answers, looking for keywords, colloquialisms, regionalisms, and other indicators. I'm a detective, Molly.' He finally looked up to her with a concern tinge in his greenish eyes. 'This is necessary to keep you safe.'

She exhaled deeply and then took a seat by his side at the kitchen table. 'Have I messed up this badly, Sherlock?'

He took a second longer to answer but when he did she realised it wasn't a second to prepare his best answer socially. With plain honesty he replied: 'It appears so. I am sorry you got involved in this, Molly', he added. And she knew well he never apologised. She was an exception.

'Why can't I have a normal life?' she gulped, trying hard to keep herself in check.

'Because of me, Sherlock Holmes', he answered without skipping a beat. She faced him as a child who fesses up to his mistakes.

'Then it's worth it', Molly stated bravely. He smiled softly at her, but sadly.

'We will keep you protected', he promised her. 'Mycroft and I have come up with a secure location for you.'

She bit her lip. 'When do I leave?'

'Tomorrow. We are all going with you.'

Molly frowned. 'Who's _we_?'

'John, Mary and I for now. You are not to be alone at any time, Molly. This way we can keep you safe. It's the least we all owe you.'

'I understand John wanting to come, but Mary?'

'Mary Watson as a trick or two up her sleeve' was all Sherlock explained at the time.

'They are having a rough time, aren't they? John and Mary?'

It was Sherlock's time to frown. Molly had seen it. In her quiet way, she was no less attentive to the detail than the detective. Even if she had failed to recognise fake Moran for Jim for over a month.

'John and Mary are already sorting it out. I assure you it'll not harm your protection in any way.'

'Sherlock!' she scolded him with no more than his given name. 'I didn't mean that. I saw what John did for me this evening. I- I tried to run, like you taught me, and then I realised I was leaving him behind, but- but I thought they wouldn't' care about him, I- I mean, they would run after me, and not him.' She noticed she'd been twisting her sweater sleeve all along and forced herself to stop. 'I'm not good at this, Sherlock. I want to be, but I'm not. Even with the defence lessons... It's so different in real life. And John likes it. Danger, I mean. He thrives on it. I hate it... Why is Jim circling me again? Is it because of you?'

'I don't know, Molly. Must be. I'm the only one who can drive his boredom away. I'm the puzzle.'

'The puzzle?'

'The puzzle of how he is who he is. Because we're just alike. He sees himself in me.'

She faced him sternly, as a quiet force of nature to be reckoned with, all previous traces of nervousness gone. 'You couldn't be more different from Jim, Sherlock. You're nothing like him. Just look at Baker Street, tonight. You're taking me in to protect me, you're keeping quiet to maintain John asleep, you're worried about Mary. Jim Moriarty has nothing on you, Sherlock. You two couldn't be more apart.'


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: Life keeps being complicated, so my goal for now is to have chapters popping up in small clusters for an easier following of the storyline (yours and mine). Chapters 9 and 10 are coming up soon, hopefully daily. I'm just trying to filter as many errors as possible.__ -csf_

* * *

-ooo-

'Sherlock, what if I talked to Jim?' Molly volunteered. 'I mean, talk to "Sebastian". Maybe I can work this out somehow, right? I mean, we dated before it turned out he was a criminal mastermind. He was nice.'

Behind the detective, a sleepy John was stumbling into the conversation and the kitchen in the middle of the night, attempting to be discrete. Caught off-guard by Molly's words about Moriarty, he'd just blink silently, immobile, forgetting to say hello or to ask if everything was okay.

Sherlock, himself, accepted easily Molly's standpoint on the niceness of an undisclosed Jim.

_A disguise is always a self-portrait,_ he had once been told. In order to be "Jim from IT", Jim Moriarty had to be a part of himself with Molly. While Sherlock was fighting an arch-nemesis, it was the knowledge that Molly gave him, that Jim was as human as everybody else, that kept the detective grounded. Not the monster with tentacles spreading all over the world, just a very clever human.

In trying to damage Sherlock, Jim had taken one step to many. He had shown himself to Molly, in order to study Sherlock through her, thinking she would never give Sherlock feedback on Jim. In the end, it worked both ways.

He believed Sherlock to be the dismissive manipulative bastard that he saw around Molly. And that Sherlock had been indeed, to an extent. (He saw that now.)

A huge difference separated Sherlock and Jim. It was all about _caring_. Jim wasn't truly capable of caring, even if he had learnt what that was about and was capable of faking it to perfection. Jim must have never truly pondered that Sherlock, so much like him in so many ways, could really care about Molly despite all the evidence in contrary (most from Molly's own recounts of events).

In the end, it had been Sherlock's high functioning sociopathic ways that gave him the upper hand. Molly didn't know how important she was at the time. Jim never even considered her in his target list.

'I wouldn't let you do that, Molly. Those men in the parking lot meant business. It happened that you were lucky to have chosen that afternoon to talk to John. Had you been alone...'

'Yes?' she asked him to continue, bravely. John just looked from one to the other, definitely awake now.

'You might be with Jim and not me right now. I think he wants something from you. The attack was meant to capture you, not kill you.'

'_Sherlock_', John called out. The detective ignored him, adding:

'I think Jim wants me.'

Molly pondered: 'I see...' Sherlock was telling her everything, no sugar coating now.

'And I'll never let him have you, Molly.'

She bit her lip, sad for Sherlock, for the fact that Jim was coming back to taunt the detective by going after the ones he cared about, all over again. Molly should probably have been more worried about herself, all along. Something, perhaps the fact that she had shared chocolate cake on the sofa on a movie night with Jim (and her cat) stopped her from truly fearing Jim. Sherlock was aware of that and kept insisting she should be careful. And John just didn't grasp it.

-ooo-

The morning after the attack on Molly Hooper, she came downstairs late to find Sherlock and John in Baker Street domesticity. The doctor was bustling over eggs on the stove, looking rested, and Sherlock was rambling about not wanting to clear the kitchen table of his latest scientific experiment (the one that would create the smog curtain, not the foul smelling one – Molly may not be ready to leave the flat in the shortest of notice, not to mention John wouldn't fail to nag him).

That those two men were the same ones that had assured Molly's safety just the previous evening was a concept estranged from reality to the pathologist, as they bickered over the kitchen's table contents.

'When are we leaving, Sherlock?' Molly asked, taking a seat in the smaller portion of cleared table.

'Soon', he answered impatiently, with an exaggerated glance towards John. '_Someone_ has insisted on breakfast.'

'Yep', the doctor maintained, stirring the eggs.

Molly took a deep breath and volunteered bravely: 'I can take care of the coffee. Want to try a fancy cappuccino?' It was stupid, she felt immediately, she was trying too hard. (Get attacked by strangers, brew cappuccinos.) It kept her hands and mind occupied, though. As long as she could keep her head busy in the moment, reality didn't seem so estranged anymore.

The door bell from 221 Baker Street rang and John volunteered to go open the door. 'Mary', he explained. Molly just watched him go, as she poured the cappuccinos. Sherlock broke her concentration almost as soon as John was out of the way:

'Did you mean what you said last night?'

'What?' she frowned.

'That me and Jim are very different.'

She raised her chin. 'Yes, Sherlock. I mean it.'

'You think you know me', he mocked, putting up his hard shell once again to protect himself. And her. If he kept her at bay, she'd be safer. Molly knew that was Sherlock's motivation.

'I do know you, Sherlock', she maintained, bravely, assuredly.

'And you think you know Jim', Sherlock added.

This time Molly skipped a beat. Sherlock knew she meant what she said. Now he was playing her and her words, as if in an effort to intimidate her, or minimise the importance of her statement. Same old Sherlock, having trouble with voiced emotions. 'Yes, Sherlock, I think I know you both', she stated at last. John and Mary were already coming up the stairs.

He just smirked sideways, sadly. He too knew John and Mary were coming in, and preferred to keep quiet. Another conversation interrupted till further opportunity arose. That was how most of Sherlock and Molly's conversations were nowadays. Once it had been very different, but no less secretive.

-ooo-

_Take Sherlock Holmes and doctor Watson and place them in the countryside._ Somehow that sounded to Greg like the recipe for disaster. If there ever were two people who belonged in London most, it had to be those legendary two. They were as integrant part of the bustling city as the landmarks, the black cabs, the red double-decker busses, and the tourists. To leave Baker Street empty and waiting for their return, while Sherlock pretended interest in their fishing trip, was borderline insane.

_Sherlock fishing_, considered. Bored, waiting, fishing. Sherlock would try, just to keep Molly Hooper under the impression that the danger was minimal. The pathologist was already under a considerable amount of pressure, and the recognition that she stood tall and brave in the face of it didn't escape anyone in that improvised team of protection. Her customised body-guards. A mad detective, an adrenaline-addict doctor, his sniper-trained wife (Greg was still pretending he didn't know that to John; how do you tell a bloke you've come across his wife's picture in the most wanted list of a foreign nation?) and a Yarder. All in all, not a bad team to have around. Shy Miss Hooper had managed to secure herself the best of all of London, effectively leaving the city more empty behind. _Good Golly Miss Molly_.

Greg was actually smiling as he turned the wheel into the grounds of an old, rundown estate by a lake. A jumble of weeds, spontaneous herbs and thorny bushes grew ungracefully by the simple low wood fence. At a distance, a typical country house stood squarely at the centre of the property, looking half-functional, half-let-down to the visitors arriving.

'Family inheritance. From an uncle', Greg prompted.

By his side, Sherlock squinted at Greg, then at the house, but remained silent.


	9. Chapter 9

-ooo-

'It's... hm... peaceful in here, Greg', John complimented as he opened the back of the car to remove the bags. Their friend would glance carelessly in a second, and in the next sprint over to stop John from insisting on using his injured shoulder.

'Are you out of your mind? Let me have that, John.'

The former soldier was actually frozen in perplexity. 'What? The bags? Why?'

'John, you were shot, stop pretending that if you don't care it'll go away!'

'That was ages ago!'

'That was a week ago!'

'John?'

'It wasn't the first time', John added sternly.

'That makes it even worst! John, can you really not see it? You are a doctor, for heaven's sake! Will you just start acting like a sensible patient should for once? Last time I got hurt at a crime scene you lectured me all about safety and care and...' Suddenly Greg realised he was actively shouting at John. He got him on his last nerve. A doctor who was helpless at keeping himself healthy. If there ever was a person of extreme contrasts it was John. How short-tempered Sherlock put up with John was beyond him. It took one to know one, Greg gathered, with a sigh.

'Would you check on Molly, John?' Greg evaded, feeling slightly guilty, he really couldn't help it. John nodded at once, with one last glance at the bags.

'Just leave them there', he asked sincerely before taking off to the house.

Greg was feeling tired without picking up a single bag.

John cared for Molly as he did for all his friends. Looked like he was over the betrayal Sherlock had imposed on Molly's doing. Well, Greg remembered too well a shattered to the core John Watson after Sherlock's little vanishing act. That Molly had been able to act along (at Sherlock's request) and even try to set up some old time's sake late evening gatherings of the gang (John never refused, but always came up with last minute excuses not to show up) now sounded strangely twisted and cruel. In reality she probably wanted to check up on John for Sherlock. At least, Greg hoped so. That Sherlock had been human enough to grasp what he had done to John. He had crushed a friend as a last one up on the evil genius. The same that apparently hadn't died at all. This was bad. _If the last time around Sherlock had won by destroying John Watson's core, how was he going to go one up on that?_ Suddenly Greg was utterly exhausted, and not because of the small bags he was carrying inside the house.

Molly had a lot of explaining to do, Greg thought. Only she wouldn't. Not for selfish reasons, and this time not even because of Sherlock. She kept her secrets as a respect for John. As long as John didn't bring it up, Molly wouldn't either. And John would never talk it out with the one that kept the Secret. Greg felt for Molly. She was just about carrying the world in her shoulders because of the Secret. Sherlock was her only possible confident. (Well, good luck with that...)

Speaking of the man himself, there was Sherlock, just finishing a round of inspection by circling the house and analysing the grounds. He looked tense and preoccupied, and Greg felt somewhat proud of how changed Sherlock was allowing to show himself the last weeks. Well, at least for sherlockian standards.

The detective noticed Greg standing by the car and bags, and walked over with the same cool he usually had for crime scene arrivals. (There had to be an element of trepidation that enticed the man, despite the present circumstances; Greg could sense it.)

'Honestly, Sherlock, I thought you wouldn't survive ten minutes in here', Greg confided serenely as he was watching closely the younger man.

Sherlock pursed his lips and looked away. Almost shyly, he assured: 'I could get used to this. One day I might even retire to the countryside, Greg... When Scotland Yard starts solving cases on their own, though. It might take a while.'

'I can imagine you with your science experiments and late night violin solos here, Sherlock. But would it be enough? No puzzles?' Greg worried.

'Nature is a puzzle. I'd definitely study nature', he determined firmly. 'Birds, bees...'

'You'd learn about the birds and the bees...' Greg smirked, biting down a chuckle. Sherlock just glanced at him, confused. Then, deciding it was a fair bet that he should take offense, Sherlock cast an arrogant look at the DI and announced: 'I'll go set up a guard with John.'

'Yeah, you do that', Greg mastered all his seriousness back, in one very composed expression.

-ooo-

'It's a very nice place, Greg', Molly assured the DI as they crossed the threshold. The old country house was classical in style, with not too many pieces of furniture and decor. It seemed the reflection of a practical person, and the airy, open feel to it was almost a relief, a counterweight to an overwhelmed Molly Hooper.

'Toby would love that armchair', she said, with a sweet smile. Perhaps the first honest smile in days.

Greg looked at her sideways. 'Toby?' he repeated.

'My cat. My neighbour took him in for now.'

'Oh, right.'

'It's best that way. Your armchair wouldn't be the same after Toby's claws were on it. He can be deadly to furniture.'

Greg displayed an unsure smile, all the while looking confused. Molly got her cheeks red. 'Well, he's a pathologist's cat, after all. Dead things are what we do. Although of course I have scalpels and he has these tiny pointy claws, and...'

'I see', Greg lied, to help her out. She skipped a beat and then smiled for him. Not her awkward shy smile, that seemed to suit her so nicely. Greg saw that new smile for what it was. A confidant, self-assured smile of someone who saw what Greg was doing.

Little Miss Molly had grown up. That flick of a smile was the expression of someone in full control. Of someone willing to fight a battle for her own. No matter the awkwardness and the pathologist humour, she was inside a stronger Molly than Greg had met in St Bart's basement.

'It's okay if you want to bring your cat here one day, Molly. When you're no longer in danger, I mean. I'd love to have you around. Me and the boys, we usually come fishing. Well, I don't really know if you like fishing, Molly...'

What on Earth was wrong with him? Suddenly he was stumbling under a very grown-up self-assured Molly Hooper's stare.

Greg had cracked hardened criminals in the interrogation room, multiple times. Now his cool was faulting in face of one person he'd never cast has threatening. That was really strange, and before he could figure it out, someone else was calling for his attention.

'Greg?'

It was Mary, John's Mary, coming in the nick of time to diffuse the situation's potential awkwardness. Good Golly Miss Molly, when had Molly started to get him flustered? He cared about her, he cared about all of them. That was why he had taken days off from work to come and _fish_. Making sure Molly, Sherlock and John were well away from a high danger London.

'Mary', he focused. She smiled tensely.

'John is taking the first shift, upstairs, watching the grounds to make sure we weren't followed here.'

'He needs my gun', Greg realised.

'He's got one', Mary said lightly. 'Actually, he's got two. Sherlock and I both got him one.'

'John now has two illegal guns.' Greg summarised with a sigh. 'Well, I didn't hear that.'

'No, John gave Sherlock one of the guns, so he can protect himself as well. Only Sherlock says he doesn't need one, he's got John.'

This time Greg opened his mouth to talk, but remained silent.

'And of course I have one too, before you ask...' Mary added, in full disclosure.

'Mary, guns are dangerous', Greg started, almost in a fatherly sermon tone of voice.

Mary Watson, former trained sniper, had to bite her tongue to keep herself in check. This was not a good time to disclose the information... Well, actually... No, John would be upset. John still had the secret hope that her past could remain silent to their friends. She knew better. Life was hardly ever that forgiving.

Only Greg already knew. If he wasn't coming clean about it immediately it was just so he'd not intimidate Molly, when she was already overwhelmed. And maybe a bit because he felt that Mary should be the one fessing up. Greg was sure Sherlock knew, and fairly convinced John had fallen for Mary because of Mary's aura of danger (and the ex-soldier didn't get himself scared easily). Only Molly was an innocent bystander in the middle of the secrets. And Greg was sure he wanted to keep her protected.

-ooo-

As Sherlock went to the top floor of the house he found John poised by one of the windows, watching the peaceful landscape. At the same time, to keep himself busy, he had disassembled his new gun and was cleaning it throughout. Sherlock had no doubt John could assemble it in a few seconds flat if danger approached; he had seen John do it before. The man that was today a doctor, was no less of a soldier still, and his learnt abilities were fast, clean and nearing the instinct level, amazing his friend. In fact, one day John had clearly proved to Sherlock that the suspect could be the murderer by disassembling and assembling a long shot rifle in under six seconds. While talking lazily of something else, and in no effort to hurry. Sherlock had learnt two lessons that time. That John knew his way with firearms, and that the doctor hadn't gone to war by mistake, but by devise. He had cold-bloodedly chosen to locate himself where he believed his actions as a doctor could be of greater importance.

He'd return too, if he believed that Sherlock could dispense of him and the army took him back.

He kept his military skills as sharp as the day his life had changed in Afghanistan.

Sherlock was to make sure John never returned, in a selfish effort to keep his friend safe, where he mattered the most, keeping London and Sherlock (and Molly) safe.

Who knew? Maybe one day John and Mary could move into the countryside with Sherlock to study bees. The detective would really enjoy it.

'Sherlock', John called his friend out of his strange abstraction. 'Are you alright?'

'Fine', he dismissed. John frowned.

'I should have a look at your arm none the less.'

'Will you leave my arm alone?' Sherlock retorted, impatiently.

'Not really', John replied. Sherlock couldn't help but smirk. No matter the guns or rifles, John Watson was always a doctor first and foremost. 'You've been acting strangely, Sherlock. I suppose I couldn't expect anything less, with what we assume to be your arch-enemy on the loose once again, after you thought it was all done and over with. What I mean to say is... I know you enjoy being all quiet and secretive, but if you feel – just hear me out, don't roll your eyes at me – if you feel you need to confide or something, I hope you know that I'm here for you, Sherlock. You're my friend. That's what friends do. And don't act like I'm stupid – I don't care if sometimes you believe I'm stupid – I know that when it comes to Moriarty you don't like to talk about it with me, but you might with Molly, who knows maybe even with Greg. And I'm okay with that. I just want to make sure you know that you're not alone. And that you don't need to play the super-hero with me. Super-heroes aren't supposed to carry the whole world on their shoulders – even when they are a Holmes – they are supposed to be human.'

Sherlock remained impassive. 'Told you before, John: I'm not a hero. Now you're going on and on about super-heroes? Will you ever listen to what I say?'

'Will _you_?' John returned, standing his ground. 'No matter how much it aggravates you, Molly sees you in a hero status. And she's really scared, understandingly so. Let's just do this for her, shall we?'

'I know Molly is scared', Sherlock blurted out, half hurt that John might have thought that he had missed it, half drilling for an escape route out of the hero conversation. He really believed he was no hero. Heroes weren't supposed to be as flawed as he was. Molly knew some of his worst, she would never regard him as a hero. John should fall for that mistake even less.

'That's good, Sherlock, that you know about Molly', John nodded. It wasn't patronising. There was something close to pride in John as Sherlock revealed emotions in a simple straightforward way. 'Now there isn't a simple procedure on what to do about it. Just follow your gut instinct.'

'Maybe I should follow yours, you don't think I own one.'

'Actually I'm fairly sure you do. I know it firsthand.'

And that was as much as Sherlock could handle before he snapped. John saw it too. The change in his attitude, that Sherlock had gone for the hardened exterior acidic misanthrope act. With a defiant and not scared at all shrug of the shoulders John reassembled his gun in three seconds sharp and got up.

'Your turn, Sherlock.' (In the vigil, in the events.)

'Yep', the genius proclaimed coldly to the audience of one.

'So, no talk, I presume', John resumed before he leaved, one hand already on the door handle.

'I don't _need _ to talk. Least of all, to _you_.'

That burned. It was expected, but it hurt John none the less. The doctor would look around in the empty room to gather his thoughts before saying: 'I wish I knew why you keep playing Moriarty's game.'

Sherlock watched the apparently calm short man leave the room as his words were still ringing in his ears. _Play Jim's game_. What game? The game of isolation. (Alone protects me.) St Bart's rooftop. _Oh._


	10. Chapter 10

-ooo-

Greg Lestrade came up shortly to the empty room, holding his phone in his hand, and looking exasperated.

'Did you really just texted me to get me to come upstairs, Sherlock?'

He seemed annoyed, the detective noticed. Surely it wasn't about the text, but Sherlock would carry on: 'I couldn't abandon the look-out. By the way, it's your turn. I've got things to do.'

'What kind of things?'

'Things to solve the case, Inspector. Things to get us all out of here.'

'Sherlock, if you're making this up...' Greg was suspicious.

The detective glared at the inspector. 'I trust you don't require a gun', he added.

'No, and I'm the only one here who is supposed to have one, too', Greg snapped as Sherlock was already exiting the room, leaving him behind.

Sherlock raced down the stairs to get to his bag. He found his leather bag by the others, carelessly dumped by the door. He frowned. _John hadn't taken Sherlock's bag to his room._

No, John hadn't brought the bags in. Lestrade, then. John would have neatly arranged them by rooms, whereas the five bags just stood by the door. Hopefully his shoulder hadn't kept him from fulfilling his task.

One leather bag, two flower pattern ones, a sports bag and a worn out camouflage one stood on the floor.

'Sherlock, what's wrong?' Molly asked him from the living room. She could see him hesitate by the bags from where she sat.

'He's being purposefully thick.'

Molly was looking at Sherlock, not at all deceived by the cold superiority lining to the detective's words. He was surely talking about John.

'Sherlock...' she started as one fast advice to make the detective reconsider. He rebelled at once.

'So, it's out there for everyone to see it, but no one can mention it? It's the elephant in the room? By the way, I closed _that _case, I know how the elephant got into the room.'

Molly frowned, sure it must have been a weird case, but she wouldn't allow Sherlock to divert her attention now.

'You don't mean it, Sherlock, he's your friend.'

Sherlock shrugged. 'I'm more intelligent than he is. I thought that was fairly obvious.'

'You're hurt with something John said or done', she patiently translated his emotions.

'No.'

'Tell me what happened, Sherlock. Start at the beginning.'

The detective had a hard time biting a nasty retort. 'You're all too emotional', he depreciated with a vague gesture in the air.

Molly worried. Whatever John had done to the detective, it had been bad.

'Where is John now, Sherlock?'

'He's not in the leaving room?'

She shook her head, stunned, replaying their conversation in her mind. Had Sherlock meant it all for John to listen in? That was one childish tantrum... What in the world had gone on? And how could it be fixed now? 'Maybe he's resting upstairs.'

'No. His bag is still here.'

'Then he must have gone out for a walk.'

Sherlock glanced at his watch. 'He hasn't eaten since breakfast. He didn't eat with us. It's been six hours now.'

Molly saw him glance at the bags again. Sherlock was clearly overwhelmed by all that had happened recently. One moment he was angry with John, the next looking for him to make sure he was safe, then worrying about his eating habits. It must be a bit too much on Sherlock. The self-proclaimed genius still couldn't handle the matters of the heart.

'He's on a look-out, Molly', Sherlock understood as if the comprehension had hit him like an electric shock.

'You just said he wasn't upstairs', Molly reminded him.

'He was a soldier, he knows there are blind spots from the upstairs window. He knows this is the hour of most danger. In case we were followed here. He went to a secondary location where he can cover them...' he was deducing at a fast pace now. Looking around him he added: 'Mary. She joined him. She's worried about him.' Then he visibly hesitated, that argument still in his mind.

Molly felt bad for the both of them. She decided to volunteer: 'I can check if he's okay for you, Sherlock.' The detective pretended he didn't even listen, but his eyes shone with some relief.

With a minute shoulder shrug, Molly took off.

'The old water mill, to the north, Molly', she heard Sherlock direct her, breaking his pride. He must really be worried about his friend.

-ooo-

The grounds were lovely and peaceful. Had Molly been less worried she might have appreciated the sun coming out from behind light clouds, broadening the colour pallet of the vast natural space. Unfortunately her worries made her somewhat upset at the beauty all around, as if it could brighten the world to everyone else but her.

The old water mill was a precarious stone and wood structure over a vivacious stream, behind a curtain of tall poplar trees.

'John? Mary?' she safely called out from a distance. Instead of a called out answer, Mary came out to meet her with a soft smile.

Mary showed the pathologist the entrance with ease. The space was darker and colder, some rusted grinding machineries remained, and slumped against one of them stood John.

'John's asleep?' Molly realised with some confusion.

Mary nodded. 'Don't worry, I'm keeping an eye out, Molly.'

The pathologist came and took a sit by the Watsons, setting a hand in the cold water running under the mill. 'It's because he was shot alongside Sherlock, isn't it?'

Mary emulated a smile. 'I was supposed to keep him awake.'

'He needs some rest', Molly volunteered. Even when pushed over his own physical exertion limits, John wouldn't back down in the mission of keeping the people he cared about safe.

Mary nodded again. When John woke up, he was going to be in a foul mood for having fallen asleep despite his best intentions. But that'd be a battle Mary rather see later than rousing a John Watson in much need to give his body some rest. She could keep an eye out on the grounds as effectively as he could. She'd cover for him when he was exhausted. Wasn't that what a marriage was for? Other couples shared petty everyday troubles. Mary and John shared by being an impromptu sniper tag team. (Simple.)

'You should go back to the house', Mary advised, 'it's safer there.'

Molly raised her chin, proudly. 'I can fire a gun, if necessary. Sherlock has taught me. And I once dated a criminal mastermind. I think I can take care of myself, Mary.'

Mary rolled her eyes, still all business-like, before she started naming: 'You can fire a gun, so can I. I've been trained as a sniper before I left the States. You dated a man with wicked deranged over-the-top plans, well I'm currently putting up with two of those: Sherlock and John. Yes, John also has plans. Mind you, Sherlock's plans tend to be more exaggerated, but John is catching up fast, the stubborn man. You are being chased by Moran, I was the one who brought down—'

'Wait', Molly actually interrupted, 'you lived in the States?'

Mary rolled her eyes again. Typical. Still catching up with the twists and turns of events. Completely missing the point. Unruly overly emotional feeble mind.

'Among other countries. I speak six different languages. Hardly the point.'

Molly frowned. Mary was fast picking up on this Sherlockian mannerisms. And who'd want to do that?

'Sherlock speaks nine languages fluently', the pathologist commented, still dazed.

Mary didn't answer Sherlock's number one fan. With some difficulty she even managed to avoid an eye roll. She just tugged the gun tighter in her hand. By now Molly had apparently forgotten her surroundings and the high level alert. (No help from her.)

Instinctively, Mary despised Molly's damsel in distress status. All Mary's life she had fought for her way in the world. Molly had it easy.

Or maybe she envied her, objectively. What wouldn't she had given for John's protectiveness and Sherlock's complicity when she was a teenager and—

_No_. That old life was gone and done with.

She had promised that to John, right?

Actually she had merely promised not to let it overflow into Mary Morstan Watson's life. John would most certainly be a sympathetic ear if she allowed him. She just didn't want to overburden him. For the most part he didn't recount his pre-Sherlock life either. (Where the nightmares started.)

'What was that?' A noise had startled the two women.

Mary raised her hand in the air in an imperative demand for silence. Both women froze tensely as time went by.

'Two individuals, at least one is carrying a gun and has just clicked the safety off', Mary confided in a tight whisper. With a close glance at the pathologist she added: 'Chances are they are both carrying guns, Molly.'

'We need to get out of here.'

Mary death-stared her. 'No, we need to stop them from getting to us, from getting to the house. You should have been in the house, you're their primary target.' As she was talking, careful to keep her voice casual, she was waking up John. He came to with a start and immediately read the atmosphere.

'Are they coming here?' Molly asked.

'They are heading for the house now.'

'Greg will spot them, he's upstairs by the left-hand side window.'

Mary cut their whispered conversation short and glanced at her silent husband. He nodded at her. In coordinated moves they both reached for their weapons. It might have been strange, if they thought about it. Given that they had never worked missions together. 'You keep the asset, I'll go outside and see if I can stop their progress', Mary dictated.

John looked startled, opening his blue eyes wide. Next second he was the one up in one swift movement and denied her: '_You_ stay with Molly, Nice plan by the way', he added with a dangerous smile, the one Molly recognised from the old photograph.

'John, don't you dare!'

But it was too late, John was already descending to the cold water under the mill as an unexpected way out of the building.

'Oh, that stubborn man!' Mary muttered under her breath.

Molly receded to the corner space that John had been occupying.

'Don't worry', Mary told her, for what it was worth.

'What is he going to do?' Molly feared, as a forced viewer of the evil plan unfolding against her will.

'You'll see.'

John stealthily walked along the stream, the cold water soaking his shoes but also keeping his footsteps silenced in the natural crackling of its waters. Keeping himself low, he had some cover in the natural vegetation of the margin, as he checked the perimeter for the intruders.

Two bulky men, armed with drawn guns, had crossed the gate into the property. They seemed to be expecting little resistance. _Their mistake._

Unfortunately some small animal got frightened by John's incursion and took off in a dash from the margin, making noise as it went. That drew the two men's attention immediately. (And their guns.)

John hardly had the time to duck behind the dead trunk of a fallen tree nearby before the first bullets shot past him. The doctor blinked for a couple of seconds, holding his breath to steady his cardiac rhythm. Then he pushed his gun over the fallen tree and aimed by instinct. He pulled the trigger as he was already ducking again. A muffled gasp told him that he had hit the better of the two gunmen. One down (literally; also, John had aimed for his firing arm so he couldn't fire again), and another one to go. John knew they'd split up now. Not a real team, those two. Better than help a fallen companion was to complete the mission and cash in the total prize money. The unharmed man had better chances making a dash run for the house now.

With a defeated sigh, John got up from his hideout and furtively ran to the fallen enemy. The man still tried to point the gun with the other hand, but the wound was making him weak. John grabbed the gun and tucked it away, under the deep fear gaze of the man. Younger than John, he reminded the doctor of the soldiers he had patched up in the battlefield, so John actually fell into old patterns saying: 'You're going to be fine, you just need a lifestyle change.' He took out the man's scarf and with a pocket knife cut the fabric into two. He efficiently wrapped the first portion around the wound, the second was to tie him up to the fence. With one last mischievous smile he advised: 'Stay put, will you?' (How could he not, being tied up?) And John got up again.

That was when he heard a couple of shots fired, followed by eerie silence.

* * *

_A/N: I need to check the definition of a Cliffhanger. I'm not sure if this constitutes a (mild) cliffhanger. Before I get that done, I'll get another chapter up in this "chapters cluster", just in case. -csf_


	11. Chapter 11

-ooo-

'It's only one now, Molly', Mary recognised with pride, as they heard fresh footsteps approaching the old water mill. 'John got the other already.'

'Are you sure it's not John?' The pathologist was ready to stop her from firing her gun by force if needed.

Mary scolded her: 'I know my man when I hear him.'

Before any of them could react, a small cylinder was tossed inside the mill. Oh, Mary knew very well what that was about. Smoke curtain. To extract them. They were still after a very alive Molly.

The chemical white smoke swiftly swirled from the small can, as if it were a miracle of science that it should have fit inside.

'Stay here as long as you can!' Mary ordered Molly before jumping herself to the stream, gun in hand. Immediately she was cornered back by a couple of shots. She doubled herself in two, grabbing her thigh. Not even the cold water of the stream could be efficient at easing the pain.

'Mary!'

She looked back and saw Molly holding out a hand towards her, the pathologist had jumped into the stream as well, out of the smoke filled space. Mary trusted. She handed out her gun to Molly.

Molly threw the empty can in the air. It landed at a good distance, with a noisy plunge in the water.

Diversion tactics, Mary understood with surprise. Hurried footsteps along the margin followed the noise to its source, proving that Molly's simple idea had been highly effective for the moment.

'That's actually not such a bad move, kitten!' Mary teased molly with a strained smile to ease the situation. _Who knew the pathologist had it in her?_ She looked much more in control now.

'What do we do now?'

'I'm still thinking', Mary responded tensely.

'Can you run to the house?'

'Not really.'

'You were shot!' Molly squealed as she realised. Mary didn't even disguise her eye-rolls anymore.

'Yes, kitten, I have, but it's just a graze.'

'Don't call me that', Molly snapped.

'I know what to do', the former sniper tried to focus the pathologist.

'Have you been shot before?'

'Never... Even John wouldn't miss a bullet scar in my body, had there been one. Wouldn't have managed to convince him I was just a nurse then.'

'Mary, we _need_ to get you to John now', Molly grounded her. 'You don't look so good. It's a graze, but I rather have John look at it. My patients don't really bleed, you see. My luck, they never complain either. Sorry, pathology humour. I guess I'm nervous.'

Mary forced a smile to her face.

The two women were surprised by three or four consecutive gunshots at a close distance.

'John?' Molly wondered.

Mary shook her head. 'John never wastes bullets.'

'Who then?'

'Welcomed help.'

-ooo-

Sherlock looked down to the man fallen to the stream waters that flowed red away from him. The man's head was just above water, allowing him to take shallow breaths. Sherlock needed him alive to extract information. That thought alone kept him from exerting revenge on the attack on his friends, his _family_.

'Talk, now!' he barked the order to the man, watching the fear in his eyes as they met the cold empty stare of the towering detective above.

'I had orders...' the man spilled out, 'orders to bring back the brunet lady. I have a picture of her. That's all I know. That's all I was told.'

Sherlock heard footsteps running in their direction. _John._ Never breaking eye contact with the man bellow, Sherlock demanded. 'Who hired you?'

'An ex-Captain. The man is ex-military.'

'His name?' Sherlock demanded. As the criminal hesitated, Sherlock fired a bullet to the stream close to him. (Motivation.)

'Moran. I don't know his first name.'

'Describe him.'

'Short, blond...'

Lousy observational powers, Sherlock realised with a sigh. Sure not everyone was a detective, and Sherlock could read a genuine response.

'Sherlock!' The shout came as soon as John could recognise which of the two men at the stream was in control. John was already lowering his gun as he asked: 'Are you alright, Sherlock?'

'Fine. Call Greg. Tell him to call his friends over. Scotland Yard can take care of this... _John?_'

The doctor's face was drained pale alarmingly fast, as he was watching something beyond Sherlock.

Sherlock glanced back immediately.

Molly was helping Mary out of the water by the mill. The detective read the breathing pattern, the skin tone, the tightness of the muscles in and around the leg, the stain draining down on the jeans. _Mary had been shot._

Abandoning the hurt criminal, Sherlock sprinted over to Mary, just behind John_._

Damn it, now John was going to go berserk. Sherlock already was.

-ooo-

'Molly, it's safe now. Call Greg and tell him what happened. Tell him we need backup', Sherlock directed to the only one there that could listen to him. The Watsons were in a world of their own.

She nodded, holding on by a thread. She was needed, she couldn't fail them now.

Sherlock was already kneeled on the floor and holding Mary up in his arms as John cut the fabric of her jeans to expose the damage. The doctor's movements were surgical and precise, he didn't seem affected by the emotional nature of the scene at all. Everyone there but John knew differently.

'It's a graze, I'll take care of it back in the house', he promised her, taking a warm hand to her cheek and neck, trying to convey his relief and care in one supportive gesture.

She smiled at him, a loving nurturing smile because she knew, even before he knew, that this meant that she could be abandoning the team. That John would have to go without her, in order to protect Sherlock and Molly.

Sherlock preceded John's intentions and raised Mary from the ground in his arms. It put some strain in his arm wound, but John's shoulder couldn't take the beating, not yet.

Greg was already running towards them from the house. With one concerned look at Mary, then at the man in the stream, he assured them: 'I'll take care of this, you guys take care of her.'

John warned, absent-mindedly: 'There's another one by the entrance gate.'

Sherlock added, much in the same state of mind: 'We need them alive for questioning, Lestrade.'

Greg didn't comment, raising a brow. 'Are you okay, Molly?' She nodded, despite being shivering slightly. 'Go to the house with them. Make yourself a nice hot cup of coffee. You'll be safe in there. I'll be in shortly as well.'

The pathologist nodded, following Sherlock with her bravest expression in her face.

* * *

_A/N: I wanted a bit of action, and this is what I got. (I have no excuse.)  
_____Thanks for sticking around. I know I haven't made it easy.__  
This chapter is smaller because I'm not liking the next portion's rhythm, and chose to cut it off. (Back to the drawing board.)_  
__Feel free to call me out on my mistakes, sadly there's always something.__  
__(It's late - as I'm editing this - and I suddenly wondered if I was still writing in English, and I had to think it through, so... Boa noite / Good night. I hope I have the time to edit this out before posting tomorrow, I'll probably regret this bit. Kudos if you've read it thus far. Over and out. _-csf_)_


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: Thank you for sticking around. _Here comes a two chapters cluster (highly ambitious of me to call that a cluster, I know). Typing them now because I've fallen for the nasty mistake of handwriting them (feels like I'm a masochist). __-csf__

* * *

-ooo-

Sherlock was strangely quiet and subdued, as he watched the scene unfold. They were back at the house, Mary was stretched on the long sofa, looking pale but strong. She was keeping herself strong for everyone around her. The woman of mysterious past, now known and loved as Mary, was proudly keeping herself together, and everyone around her.

John was quiet too, as he silently doctored her wound in caring professional gestures. But the life in his eyes was dull, turned off. His hands were diligently working at maximum efficiency while his mind seemed to have wondered off.

Then there was Molly, trying to make everyone those fancy cappuccinos once again. In fairness, it had been Greg's suggestion that she'd make coffee. Sherlock failed to perceive how could he suggest anything better himself, so he just accepted the coffee silently from her hands.

As she was being the sole focus of the doctor's attention, Mary assured Molly kindly: 'I'm really okay, kitten.'

'Will you stop calling me that?' Molly snapped back. Sherlock, Greg and Mary stared at her, before she got herself in check.

Mary explained softly: 'It's an old tradition, you see. When someone sees you get shot, you get to call them whatever you want', she alleged. 'Right, John?'

He took a couple of seconds too long to answer: 'I already had knick-names before, so I wouldn't know.'

Mary smiled wickedly. 'That's right, Mr Three Continents Watson. Care to explain that one?'

John kept calm, but his ears seemed to be turning red. 'I served in the Army in three continents, Mary.'

She giggled. Not a full-hearted laugh, but the effort of a woman trying to hold Molly together (and John), despite her ordeal.

Molly was likely to blame herself for the events' turn out. John wasn't even at ten percent of the berserk level he was building up to. Every minute John went without exploding made Mary fear it more. Even Sherlock looked out of his depth, an uninflated version of his usually strong and dominant personality.

'John, you should go with Mary, and I stay with Molly and Lestrade', Sherlock announced.

(And that was it. All hell was about to break loose.)

John got up very fast circling in on Sherlock with intensity in his gaze, fists curled up and shaking by his side, stone hardened expression. He was about to talk when he froze up. Then he let go of a long breath – as if he had been holding the world inside him – and visibly relaxed.

'I don't agree with a team with the two main targets in it, Sherlock. They get to Molly, they get to you. Right now, our best guess is that they want Molly to get to you. If they find their main target with Molly, they'll go over her to get to you. They won't have a value for Molly. It won't end well. It's military strategy, Sherlock.'

Facing him, Sherlock and Mary were both working hard to conceal their shock. A pondered, cool-tempered Captain Watson was right then more frightening than an irate one.

'I see', Sherlock assured, frowning.

(Mission to tick John off in a controlled environment failed. Disengage and regroup later.)

Greg told them: 'I'll need to stay behind for a couple of days the most to straighten this mess up. I can take care of Mary. Or, should I say, she can take care of me?' he pointedly looked at her.

'You know', the former agent realised.

'Some, not all', Greg admitted, looking over at John, to confirm he was aware of a previous identity of his wife. John was looking straight ahead as if he had heard nothing. (Yes, he knew.)

Greg smirked. (No need to get embarrassed, mate!) Mary was not only caring and attentive to the former army doctor, she was a catch by her own merits.

'Greg', John started slowly. 'We're not leaving Mary behind. No one gets left behind. We're stronger as a unit. That means we need Mary, and we need you too. If you agree, I may have for you a very dangerous role. And I understand if you don't want to take part in it.'

The DI took a good look at the doctor, then at Sherlock. So now John was the one with the plans? Why was the usually larger-than-the-room Sherlock going along for the ride? Greg guessed that to solve that mystery he'd have to listen in carefully on John's plan.

'We need to split up', John said, thinking in terms of strategy. 'Sherlock, take Mary with you to safe ground. Try the old chapel, down the road. It's got good angles of observation all around. Mary...' he took his second gun from under his jumper, the one he took from the criminal at the gate, and handed it to her. 'You guys are going to need this more than me', he concluded persuasively.

Mary felt a shiver down her spine. John was right. A temporary team with an injured element – Mary – and two high prize catches – Sherlock and Molly – needed all defence possible. So why build a team like that? Because the backup team – John and Greg – were going to go all out on diverging attention to keep Molly safe. Danger, threat. Imminent. To the man she loved. Mary wanted to join his team instead. Even wanted Sherlock to join it. But she knew why John was dividing them that way. Turning him and Greg into pawns, protecting Queen Molly and King Sherlock, and loving Mary into protection as well. That Mary could help his best friend was an afterthought in John's strategy.

'John...' she said in a brief moment when vulnerability made her mask fall.

'Mary, please take care of Molly and Sherlock', John asked her, with a quick peck on her lips. His awkwardness in public displays of affection was, as always, very endearing in Mary's eyes. Because it was as genuine as the emotion underlined. His ears turned red, even his nose made this small crinkling like a small forest animal. Mary would never tell him that. In fact, she was sobering up fairly fast, in face of the danger encircling them.

'You be careful, John Hamish Watson, you have a family now', she told him cryptically, and ignored the look of confused surprise as the words hit John. She couldn't push him too far; John was an inch away from berserk. She knew it. Hell, even Sherlock knew it, as he spent most of his time observing John instead of Mary.

And she loved his distress. Loved how much he cared about her. She knew it was messed up, but exhausted and hurt, Mary accepted her human nature.

Sherlock was frowning, unaware of Mary's attention on him and everybody else in the room. He was looking down on John, doctoring his injured wife in cautious gestures. The argument Sherlock had had with John upstairs was still in his mind. He had told John he didn't _need _him. At that time, Sherlock knew John had Mary to fall back into. Maybe they'd gather somewhere, badmouthing Sherlock, or whatever married couples did while married. Now that John was clearly going to need a support, Sherlock had effectively written himself off. John would have to reach out to Greg, and hopefully Greg knew how to diffuse one very cross with the world Captain Watson. Somehow Sherlock doubted Greg had ever seen much of the captain side of their friend. Cosy jumpers, nice teas and easy-going small talk were about to explode into a fiery mess, sooner or later.

Their team was disintegrating fast.

-ooo-

'Greg?' John started, as they both progressed stealthily over the property grounds.

'Yeah?' the DI asked back without even glancing at the doctor, his sole attention on the road up ahead.

'I'm sorry you didn't get to do your fishing.'

Greg did glance at John now. John's wife had just been shot, that put fishing trips into a different perspective. Was he trying to be humorous (and failing)? No, he looked genuine enough. Then he meant more than just fishing. He meant Lestrade's time off being used up in covering and protecting them.

'It's okay, mate, there's always the supermarket.'

'What?'

'Nothing, just something Sherlock said.'

'I don't think he goes to the supermarket. It's probably Mrs Hudson or online shopping', John commented. Greg had to agree. Finding the towering imposing cold consulting detective in a supermarket's cashier line was an impossible sight. Too pedestrian, Greg supposed.

John interrupted his thoughts, explaining: 'Too many deductions, I always thought. It exhausts him. That's why we never see him in subways either.'

'Press conferences', Greg added.

'Hospitals', it was John's turn. 'Although if he wanted, he'd make a good doctor, he'd see all the hidden symptoms.'

'He went to the hospital with you, John. When you got shot, in Baker Street.'

John cleared his throat lightly. 'He's not as cold as people think... Although in fairness, he's the one that makes people think it.'

Greg smirked.

'What's the plan now, John?'

'We're the patrol. We need to make sure they can move in safety, Greg.'

'You've done this before', the words left Greg before he could think it through. The man by his side looked as controlled and self-assured as the time he had spent in dangerous lands abroad.

'Maybe', he grudgingly admitted, with a sharp look that warned Greg that he wouldn't discuss it.

It had always been like that between John and Greg. John's doctor skills were fair ground to talk about, his army ones were not. The man identified himself first as a doctor, even on his blog, but Greg could tell that there was in his friend a lot more military habits clung to him than he let on.


	13. Chapter 13

-ooo-

Sherlock reached the house's entrance door and looked around. He couldn't find anyone, but he didn't expect any less. If Captain Watson and Greg Lestrade were out there on a mission to protect them, they couldn't make themselves noticed. They were the silent backup, they made sure that incidents didn't take place.

-ooo-

'Can you see them, Sherlock?' Mary asked, preoccupied, from the back of Lestrade's mini-van.

Mary Watson was a woman that privileged a fair amount of cold reasoning. That was how she had gone through several governmental agencies and two rouge agencies and come out safely on the other side. That was how she had survived difficult circumstances growing up. That was how she had come to understand Sherlock Holmes, the genius of Baker Street, and read him almost like an equal. But ever since that bullet – the one she had herself recovered from the stream and was keeping to herself as a prized souvenir – her reasoning had fallen to the most basic levels of working standards. The shock to the system, the realisation of her own physical frailty, of the invisible strings of chance that ruled the universe, had taken a toll on her.

In one thing her mind kept clear and her heart called for; the company of John Watson.

Too bad he was out there playing the hero again.

Playing a very secret hero, too.

Sherlock shook his head. He couldn't make out John or Greg in the landscape. He didn't expect any less from the former army captain. John would keep an efficient camouflage on his and Lestrade's actions behind them. To keep the secret from possible back-up teams of the men Greg had arranged to be incarcerated, and also secret from Sherlock, Mary and Molly. The advanced team of three didn't necessarily require secrecy about the back-up team advances. Only one scenario granted an advantage to this strategy of keeping Sherlock in the dark. The detective knew it. And he hated it. He had not agreed with John to this. John was going rouge on their plan. Like the captain would do only when one true mission was on his mind: to keep them safe.

John had one plan up his sleeve, one that made Sherlock's teeth grind in anger. When everything else failed, John was planning to become bait.

Not even Greg knew that.

Luckily Mary was too beside herself to make the obvious math and she didn't know yet.

Only Sherlock knew. And he was livid.

He – and Mary – and Molly – were obviously in the wrong team. How had he let that happen? _Oh, yes..._

'Feeling better, Mary?'

'I feel like I've been shot. Which, coincidently, I have', she admitted with a smirk but not much more emotion. They were alone at the moment. Why engage in the traditional social conventions? Sherlock was surely quite aware of what it was like to have been shot, and the feelings turmoil that came with it. (He even had her to "thank" for that experience.)

'Fair enough', he conceded, choosing to sound as cold as her. 'John would have wanted me to ask anyway.'

'John should be here', she blurted out. 'How, again, did he convince us to go on without him?'

Sherlock smirked to the landscape with no one in sight. 'He pulled our leg by being more rational than us, Mary.'

'Oh, yes. Greg's in for a surprise. Captain Watson's short temper bursts.'

'I often wondered how I managed to live with him.' Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'He was really touchy when I practised my aim shooting at the walls... He never did see the one time I used daggers. I had planned to convince him that moths had eaten the wallpaper, of course.'

'Sherlock, you don't have to try to cheer me up', she saw right through him. 'I'm really worried about John, and about us too, but I can handle it.'

'_You were shot, Mary_', he said in a caring tone. She smiled softly.

'It's a bit nastier than you and John had let on, Sherlock. Too bad I can't get a refund.'

'Who's doing the cheering up now?' he smiled too.

'I can see what John sees in you, Sherlock', she told him seriously. 'No wonder you are his hero.'

'Heroes don't exist, Mary. I just had to remind him that too. Didn't he tell you that?'

She frowned. 'What are you talking about, Sherlock?'

'We had... sort of a... fight. John and I.'

She could read him easily now. 'Whatever happened, he's always your friend, Sherlock. If this was about eating and sleeping again, that's just because he cares.'

Sherlock stopped talking as Molly finally approached. 'We should go.'

'Yes, Mary agreed, in the same business-like fashion. 'And it's about time, Sherlock, you came up with a plan. A better plan my husband's. You know I really love John, but his plans...' she depreciated. The detective had to bite a chuckle, in honour of his absent friend. Mary elaborated, despite Molly joining them: 'John's plans are all about bravery and honour, and action. We need a brainy plan, Sherlock. Between you and me. We need to come up with something nice.'

Molly glanced at Sherlock, confused. Surely he wasn't about to take the lead of John's wife? What else had she been besides an agent in the States? Why was Sherlock so interested in Mary?

Sherlock smiled a not so innocent smile. 'Think our plan needs a sniper? Seems a pity to waste a church steeple.'

In front of the detective, Mary mirrored his smile. _This was going to be fun_, Sherlock realised. It was like having a non-moral John by his side. Mary wouldn't be as insistent on keeping criminals alive and being discrete on firearm power. Mary on her good days was just as revengeful as Sherlock. Now injured and missing her other marriage half... For the first time ever in action, Sherlock just might become the pondered one... _Nope!_ All hell could break lose as far as the consulting detective was concerned. They had hurt Mary, Sherlock would never stop Mary from exerting her revenge, reclaiming her power. He'd rather join in on the _fun_.

Only...

'Stop it, you two! _Stop it_.'

Molly's voice hadn't lost a certain squeakiness to it, but had otherwise gained an incredible amount of power as she threatened them with a steady gaze, heavy breathing and an expression that promised that she had just read Sherlock – if not both of them – to their core.

Suddenly, a small part of Sherlock was angry at how insightful had John's division by teams been.

Moral Molly was the new John.

Sniper Mary was also the new John.

All summed up to too many Johns around for Sherlock's liking. Sherlock just quieted down. Sulking, brooding, over the real John's absence.

-ooo-

Molly was driving the mini-van. Mary was riding shot-gun, as Sherlock, currently occupying all of the back seat, believed it was called. His hands were poised in his thinking pose, and only the rattle of the road kept him from being otherwise completely immobile.

They had been on the road for ninety-three seconds when the first gunshots echoed further back on the road.

Immediately Molly stepped on the pedal, jerking everyone in the van as they speeded up. Acrobatically, Sherlock went from almost falling off the long seat to peaking off the rear window in one slick movement. Obviously, there was no sign of either parties. There wouldn't be, at least of John's and Greg's. They had seen something, surely, recognised danger on the road, and reacted accordingly, mimicking the level of threat. With trembling cold fingers (when had his hands become so cold?) Sherlock traced patterns on his phone, sending out text messages for John.

«What happened? –SH»

«How many are they? –SH»

«Don't ignore me! –SH»

«John, if you don't answer, I'm going there! –SH»

«JOHN! –SH»

No answer to any of them, and the last one bounced back from a phone switched off.

'Turn back!' he demanded to a stunned Molly in the driver's seat.

'No.' Mary, calmly and in control, halted Molly with a reassuring gesture over her arm. 'Not until we know what is going on.'

'John's in trouble.'

'We don't know that', Mary reminded him bravely.

They were immediately interrupted by a text sound. Sherlock looked at the screen.

«We're fine. Piss off. Let us breath. Lestrade.»

Relief washed over Sherlock, as he reported the text.

-ooo-

Greg lowered his phone, knowing perfectly well that what he had just sent was a factual lie. They weren't fine. John wasn't fine yet. He'd be, though, in due time.

-ooo-

Greg hasted to help John off the stream, that flowed deeper under a pedestrian bridge by river. The doctor was wet to the bones, his drenched clothes clinging to his body, much leaner these days, his stiff shoulder locked stiff as pain emanated for every trait of his expression. Greg thought back on the recent events.

They had been walking alongside the margin of the road, taking advantage of the shallow ditch that ran along it to keep some cover. Of course they had started before the van had taken off and by the middle of the path the van had passed them by. Fine by John's standards, that seemed to believe that as long as them and the van were, at all times, within shooting distance, then they'd be fine.

And John had a good shooting range, too.

Just as they were reaching that pedestrian bridge, a simple unpretentious arched construction of wood, John had seen them.

Two military men, guns drawn by their sides, furtively stepping forward to the road and the passing van.

John hadn't hesitated.

He hadn't been particularly vocal or forthcoming either.

John had zoomed in on the bridge, walking into the stream until he was mid-waist in water and under the shadows the construction casted. He had taken his gun out and closely monitored the men's progress.

The unassuming mild-mannered doctor was gone. In his place was a strict lines dominant army captain in an incongruously comfy jumper, that had his right arm extended in a perfect line, two eyes locked on the target (only rookies close one eye, that's too straining on the open eye) and a domineering smirk.

'John?'

John hadn't even reacted. His right hand had followed slowly the men. Greg had cursed under his breath and hid behind an old tree, drawing his gun out as well. John would need backup. But that shot, the one that John was planning and Greg would have to mimic, was a 50/50 percent chance of hitting for the DI.

Before Greg had been able to talk, one of the men up ahead had taken his gun up, levelling it with the van, their friends, endangering Sherlock, Molly, Mary's lives.

Not in front of one former army captain, apparently.

John had shot first.

The man's gun had fallen down as the bullet got him in the shoulder. Immediately the second gunman had turned back at John and aimed.

Before John could do anything, Greg had shot his gun.

And he missed.

He had further alerted the enemy of their location. The gunman ignored his fallen partner and taken a dive behind a nearby tree. Immediately he had opened fire on John. He must have had spotted John and attributed him Greg's shot.

There was a very inappropriate giggle coming from John, that had been holding a gun in one hand, and his phone in the other.

(Why not read the newspaper while you're at it, John? You're allowing yourself to get distracted.) Greg had cursed him. And sure enough a new shot had cut John off his balance and into the stream's water. All the way in. John surfaced with a rapid blink, spitting the muddy water, stunned, dark blond hair plastered to his forehead.

Great, now both his phone and his gun were waterlogged. He was virtually defenceless, had realised Greg, grabbing his own gun tighter in his hand.

John had searched Greg in the margin with a look and cheekily winked at him, before diving back in the muddy waters, completely disappearing before Greg's eyes.

How was Greg supposed to follow that plan? Was there a plan? What would Sherlock have done? (Damn, John!)

Suddenly John had emerged on the other side of the bridge, just by the approaching gunman's side, jumping on him with a good punch and effectively managing to yank his gun off to the stream.

Greg had immediately run to the two men physically squaring their fight off. When he arrived by their side the enemy was out cold and John was smiling.

A very weak smile. Next second he had closed his blue eyes, his brows had knit together in a vulnerable expression that Greg wished he'd never see again, and fallen backwards into the stream.

Greg was already grabbing him under the arms to pull a breathing steadily but unconscious John from the muddy waters when his own phone biped. _Damn it, Sherlock!_

He had to lie, he couldn't waste time on consulting geniuses right now.

«We're fine. Piss off. Let us breathe. Lestrade»


	14. Chapter 14

_A/N: As always, a Complicated Life threw my writing plans out of the window. Apologies for the extensive delay._

_I left the gang separated in two smaller groups because I found captivating this idea of understanding how Sherlock and John would work separately, without each other's stabilising influences, and see what develops from that._

_-csf_

* * *

-ooo-

Greg Lestrade was in charge now. Somehow he had found himself as the backup of the backup team. And the sole guardian of a scarce commodity in Baker Street's inner circle of friends: common sense.

So the very experienced DI called for Scotland Yard's backup (it had been hard and tedious explaining it all _last_ time, this one would be even worse, and again with all the illegal guns around), he had tied up the two military men that were at Greg's custody before becoming Scotland Yard's custody, seriously pondered trying to locate Mycroft Holmes (the brother of Sherlock Holmes and the shadow embodiment of the government according to Sherlock), but decided otherwise, and went back to John Watson.

Greg took a deep breath. Presumably dishonourably discharged military personnel, several illegal firearms, one criminal unconscious, and another in need of serious medical care.

None of that boiled Greg's anger at the moment quite like John Watson.

Currently unconscious and covered with Greg's jacket to ward off risks of hypothermia, since the blond man was drenched wet.

John Watson, fake manipulative bastard that acted all nice and harmless over pints of beer, all the while eager to go all crazy lone gunman on the field. Was this really how he acted with Sherlock? Greg always assumed that John was the voice of reason, now he knew better.

_No one_ was the voice of reason.

John Watson and his smile. He had enjoyed that. The bastard had probably enjoyed the freaking war too.

He had thrown himself to danger headfirst, no explanation, no word whatsoever. Gun in hand, let's aim and shoot the guy down. Cold-bloodedly. _And he says he's a doctor?_

Was he like that every time with Sherlock as they faced criminals in the streets of London, calling Greg for urgent backup or just to tell him where the criminal's pickup point was this time?

Greg took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

_No, John wasn't like that with Sherlock._ John wasn't like that with one of the world's most difficult people. Greg had seen them work before. Sometimes from a distance, sometimes in a team. John was attentive and pondering, dissuading the consulting detective of the most dangerous ideas. Sure he could go a bit adventurous once in a while. After all John had seen the worst. He had seen it abroad, in war. He was no mercenary, far from it. John was very much a doctor fist, and a soldier later, when there was no other possible choice.

With one look over the shoulder, Greg understood that John's aim was even better than he thought. He had shot down the man that could have killed Sherlock, Mary and Molly (a shot through the engine of the van, exploding it, for instance). But he had done it on the last second possible, and in a non-threatening way. He could have aimed for the head or the heart, but no. He needed to stop the enemy, and that was what he did. Keeping him alive.

Later, he had obtained the second man's gun. Somehow it had ended up in the stream, the same waters that had claimed John's gun. Equal circumstances. Had it been by chance or devise? Could John be a noble fool after all?

One thing John had clearly not planned. His shoulder acting out again, finally defeating the man that had not been defeated by Moran/Moriarty's expert men.

If Sherlock were there, he'd be going berserk. The way he almost got with Mary's gunshot graze on the leg. _Mary._

Greg looked down on John Watson. The man lying on the muddy bank had just been through enough shocks to unnerve anyone.

_Nerves of steel_; for some reason the expression came into Greg's mind. He shook it away as he kneeled down on the mud to try to check over John Watson. Of course he didn't really know what to do except to wait for the arrival of the ambulances. Greg wasn't a doctor.

The man lying down on the mud had just known his wife had been shot, had treated her for that injury. Yet his hand was as steady as ever as he picked up the gun to save their friends.

_The smile._ It had been a sort of victory smile. The smile of a man with a million pound's plan.

Only in the end it had been a lousy plan. It had put John out of commission. Possibly for a long time.

_The silence_. John knew that outcome was possible, he wouldn't let Greg stop him.

Greg wasn't feeling angry with Berserk John Watson anymore. He had been actually quite cool tempered for a man whose world was crumbling to pieces before him, _again._ After all that had happened to John in the week before, previous to Molly's call for help.

The man could actually be quite sane... for a Sherlock's side-kick.

-ooo-

'Greg's not picking up either', Sherlock reported, short-tempered.

'What does that mean?' Molly asked him, sharply.

Sherlock and Mary shared an intense look. None wanted to say out loud what they feared. It wasn't looking good.

'There are plenty of reasons for their delay, right?' Molly pushed on a positive side with a wobbly smile. 'And you got that text from Greg. John knows we know they are okay, so he'd never think we'd worry too much if he didn't check his phone.' Her smile grew stronger as she tried to persuade both Sherlock and Mary that the most important person in their lives – John was hardly aware that he was the most important person in their lives – was carelessly ignoring them. Only that didn't fit John at all.

Sherlock bit back his response and gave her a flick of a fake smile. (He always answers the phone. He always comes.)

-ooo-

'Greg?'

With his hair sticking out after the plunge in the stream, John looked somewhat boyish as he pushed himself up slowly, surveying his friend and the area around them. His attitude was tense and alert once again, as if nothing had happened in between. Greg hastened to stop him from moving too much.

'Calm down. I called an ambulance. You need to get that shoulder looked at.'

John frowned as if he had just heard the most ridiculous thing in his life. 'I'm fine, Greg.'

'You don't look fine', the DI retorted, impatiently.

John smirked, amused. 'Loved to stay and chat, Greg, but we need to meet up with the others. They need all the help they can get.'

'John, don't be an idiot. You're in no condition to carry on.'

'Keep calm and carry on; isn't that the saying? London's tourists' mugs can't all be wrong, right?' he replied lightly, as he got up on his feet. Greg watched him in awe. How the man kept getting up and moving forward, motivated by sheer stubbornness, values and dedication to his friends was beyond a seasoned and experienced officer like Greg.

'I called the Yard.'

'Yeah. Mycroft Holmes will overrule them, you know. He'll take control... And, by the way, you don't want to leave me alone with Mycroft. I might just punch him. I bloody well want to', he confessed, tiredly. Then with a glance at his friend, he sobered up fast. 'Long story, he deserves it.'

'Yeah...' the DI gave him some slack. Then he dove right back in: 'John, did you throw the guy's gun in the water?'

'Hm?' The military man conjured his most innocent expression in under a second.

'For heaven's sake, John, if you threw away your advantage like that...' Greg's anger was apparent.

'Wait, wait! What are you talking about?' John insisted, innocent as always.

'Don't you act like you don't know!' Greg was borderline threatening now.

Their little argument was halted suddenly with the approach of a black cargo van on the seldom travelled road. 'That's not the Yard', said John, under his breath. 'Or Mycroft's people.'

Greg's eyebrows rose up. 'Can you run, John?'

'Oh, yes.'

They took off in a run across the stream, and onto the other margin, leaving behind two tied up criminals and Greg's forgotten jacket.

-ooo-

'Sherlock, you're worried about John', she said, and when the detective faced her she added, in a no-arguments way: 'I can tell.'

'His plan was based on the assumption that I'm more important than him.'

Molly took a sip of coffee. It wasn't hot and it wasn't nice either. 'You did say you were more intelligent than John.' She smirked, but he'd completely miss out on the sarcasm.

'I was angry', Sherlock dismissed. Then after a beat, 'I was wrong.'

Molly smiled sadly. 'And Jim is after us, not John.'

This time Molly didn't answer. She knew Sherlock was worried about John, rightly so. What do you tell a man whose best friend is risking his life for him? (And for her.)

'It's going to be fine, Sherlock.' (An empty promise, wishful thinking.)

Over 24 hours had passed and John hadn't met any of the check-in hours. All the while, the pit at Sherlock's stomach kept going deeper, bottomless almost, as that feeling of trust over John's capabilities morphed into a more realistic fear that he might not be okay.

He had to be okay, or Sherlock would know, right? Life wouldn't be so cruel. After all that Sherlock had gone through to keep John safe at the aftermath of St. Bart's, he wouldn't just lose him over a small nothing.

_Caring_ was not an advantage. _Caring_ was a load of –. He was already lost to this world of _Caring_, he knew it.

Once again he tried calling both phones, John's and Greg's. Both disconnected. He took one deep breath and did the only thing left to him, he should have done it from the start.

He called Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft could find out about John. Could know if he was okay. All the while Sherlock was away in Europe fighting Jim Moriarty's network, Mycroft was the one he had left in charge of John, keeping an eye on him, that had been the agreement.

In the end, he had got John back alive, but changed.

Mycroft hadn't stopped that from happening.

What could he do now?


	15. Chapter 15

_A/N: Thank you for all the motivating words I've received up till today. Hope I can live up to them. I usually keep quiet, this time I just wanted to say that it's funny how they sometimes catch one in perfect timing to brighten a tough day._

_So, here we go. Two chapters to be posted sequentially (daily, if possible). Here's one... -csf_

* * *

-ooo-

John Watson and Greg Lestrade were running, taking painful short intakes of air as they trailed away from the bridge and their pursuers. Unfortunately, the enemy was on a SUV, catching up on the distance between them fast.

'Can you run faster, John?'

He was trying, Greg saw in a glance. The doctor's face was drained pale and even though his training was evident in the way he saved up his strengths in progressing through the uneven field, it was obvious John was out of his depth, after the recent toll on his health.

John was lagging behind, not for lack of trying.

Suddenly, Greg tripped over a fallen branch. A silly minute mistake that cost him precious time. As the SUV approached, John dived by Greg's side, and completely ignoring the rather eminent danger around him, he immediately took his expert hands to Greg's ankle, checking it for the degree of the injury. (Doctor first, soldier second.)

'Run, John!' the DI instructed, out of breath.

'Save your strengths, Greg. They've got us. Doesn't mean we go down without a fight. We lay low till we get our break.' There was bravery and confidence in John's honest blue eyes.

'John, you can still leave.'

He stubbornly shook his head. He wouldn't leave a team member, a friend, behind. 'I wouldn't make it far.'

Greg knew a part of John's argument was the honest truth, but he also knew John was a much higher catch prize than himself. John's selfless act might just tip the scale in the enemies' favour. 'Damn it, John, just go!'

'No.' He was stubbornly pressing and releasing the bruised skin around Greg's ankle as three armed men approached them, from behind John's back. The former soldier must have known, he must have heard the footsteps on the muddy ground. Yet he didn't flinch, or even react. He just kept arranging improvised bandages around the ankle. 'Don't think it's broken, Greg, you were lucky.'

_Lucky?_ That was a tad optimistic as they were surrounded by armed men. The first of the three men tipped his gun against the back of John's head, in front of Greg's horror stricken gaze. John didn't react, apart from a hint of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. Like a sarcastic comment on his luck. He had finished with the bandages and keeping his hands immobile.

'We surrender', he stated clearly, in a strong confident voice, never turning to acknowledge the threat. As a response to his impertinence, he got a violent whack to his temple with the gun barrel that tipped him over to the muddy ground. It took Greg's every effort to keep himself from reaching out to his fallen friend, under the close scrutiny of all three guns. John kept his impertinence to himself now, and his only response to the attack was a slight twitch of his left hand over the muddy ground, his fingertips clutching on the mud for an absent support.

Both Greg and John were briskly pushed over to the SUV's back seat under armed coercion. All the while Greg was trying to keep a close eye on his friend's state. But all the while John kept his gaze diverted from Greg's, avoiding his looks, as if ashamed or grounded into submission by the omniscient guns around.

Greg was very worried.

-ooo-

The SUV dull progress over the countryside roads kept Greg engaged in the windows' view as the hours passed. Greg was doing his best to keep track of their journey, the directions, the distances, and their current geographical whereabouts.

By his side, John had fallen into some sort of uneasy sleep, his head slumped against his shoulder and the cold window pane. Greg had long wondered if it was healthy for him to fall asleep so shortly after a head injury, but his brief attempts at conversation were immediately halted by gun threats, and the slight nudges he had kept at the sleepy man had stopped having any effect ten miles before. Anyway, John was a doctor, he should know if he had indeed some sort of concussion and what to do (or not so) about it.

Greg certainly hoped so.

John's doctor skills were not a trait shared by the DI.

-ooo-

They had been dragged inside an abandoned factory, with broken down windows, smoked brick covering the walls inside and out suggesting a previous fire, and old rusting skeleton-like machinery running in rows along the long central area. Back through a small door and they had been confined to a small room with no windows and just the one door that was stubbornly locked, as Greg was soon finding out.

Abandoning the lock, Greg doubled back to meet John at the floor, slumped against the back wall in a less than comfortable position. 'John, can you hear me?'

John readjusted his position with ease and flexibility, startling Greg. 'I can hear you perfectly well, Greg. Though, in full disclosure, I'm riding a mad headache. Not important. I wanted them to think I was worse off than I am. Only way we can get you out of here is if they keep us together for now. As they don't think I'm much of a threat right now they'll lower the watch level on us. _Their_ _mistake_.'

'John?'

'Strategy, Greg. Sorry, I couldn't say anything. I was afraid your expression would betray you in some way...' He halted then, with a frozen expression. 'I may owe an apology to Sherlock. I wasn't kind when he did that to me once... Well, more than once.'

'John, we can't...'

Greg didn't have the time to end his thought, as the door behind them bounced open again. The three armed men gestured over to Greg, singling him out. The DI got up slowly. He realised that John was doing the exact same thing behind him. John was rewarded with a gun approaching his chest slowly in a tense measuring strengths contest.

'What do you want from him?' John voiced, taking the lead. Greg couldn't help thinking John was recklessly crazy.

'Information', he got an answer from the man that took the lead in the van.

'What do we get if we provide you with information?' John took it further, under the scandalised stare of the police officer.

'You get to live.'

'I say you can do better than that. Want to try again?' Captain Watson dared.

'Your friend first', the man denied. 'He'll talk. We both can tell just from looking at him.' And, in fact, they both looked over at Greg with knowledgeable expressions. The seasoned officer supported the stares with dignity. The armed thug's was cold and greedy, John's was human and understanding.

Greg was pushed forward briskly, separated from John that was forcing his lips into a thin angry line.

'What do you want to know?' John insisted, before they could close the door between the two friends. Greg doubted if John was actually volunteering to snitch on Sherlock to protect Greg, or if he was ready to engage on a daredevil bluff. Greg never thought John had it in him, to be honest.

Greg had underestimated John all those years.

'He can tell us where Sherlock Holmes is', the leader dismissed John's input, pushing Greg out.

'Stop wasting time, will you? I'm the bait.'

John got the attention he wanted, finally. All three men and Greg were facing him attentily.

From the shadows, a very strong-willed John Watson stepped forward. Shoulders back, chin up, proud features and round innocent blue eyes. 'Well, I am here. Am I enough for you guys to start hurrying up?' he offered himself to the men holding Greg. 'Call your boss, will you? He knows who I am. Captain John H. Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. National Healthcare Services' doctor. Sherlock Holmes' blogger. Does any of that ring a bell?'

Greg fought to get free, with no success. 'John, for heaven's sake, just shut up!'

John looked Greg in the eyes and smiled. A strong confidant smile that didn't spread to his cobalt blue eyes. In fact, his gaze looked sad, broken. It was just a couple of seconds of vulnerability, but Greg hated to see that vulnerability in the blonder man, when he was surrounded by mercenaries after him and his best mate.

How long could John keep silent about Sherlock?

For all that Greg had recently learnt about John, perhaps the answer was evident: _for as long as it took._

John Watson had given himself up to trade places with Greg. It wasn't a martyrdom gesture. It was a proof of faith. He knew Sherlock would rescue them, him (he'd rescue Sherlock as well). Now it was, in John's perspective, just a matter of holding on until then. Until Sherlock pulled through.

No one would ever convince John that Sherlock Holmes wouldn't be a hero.

Greg wished John was right.

-ooo-

The next day and far from where Greg and John were hostages to Moriarty/Moran's men, Sherlock's heart was dropping to the floor.

Or, according to the detective, it would have dropped _if he had one_. An idea of absence that everyone around him would dismiss at once, especially if they saw Sherlock's expression running livid as he took it in; what it all meant. He was standing in the exact spot where John and Greg had been caught the day before.

After a phone call to Mycroft – "_I'll do what needs doing, Sherlock"_ – the detective had found that he couldn't give two straws for personal safety. He had sneaked out of the hideout at the old church, leaving Molly to tend after Mary, and walked over to road back to the house in the frosting cold of the morning hours.

Midway he had become aware of scuffle marks in the dirt by the road. Three men, apart from Greg's shoeprints and John's uneven pace. Only one reason for the lopsided rhythm of John's footsteps – _he was hurt_. It didn't look good. Sherlock had hurried over to the stream's margin and found more disturbing marks there. He was now certain Greg and John had given themselves up as a last resource.

The attack on them had breached their defences. The backup team had fallen. John and Greg were down. They had offered themselves as pawns and they had fallen in the fulfilment of their mission.

No.

_No, no, no._

Sherlock would never let that happen.

Sherlock Holmes, the man that had defeated death, would make sure that John and Greg would never pay for it. He'd save John and Greg, and Mary and Molly, once again. He'd always save them. He'd go to any lengths, pay any price, to make sure of that.

'Sherlock, don't you dare!'

It was Molly. She had retraced his course. Of course it was the pathologist. Only she could read his intentions through and through just from a look. (When had that happened?)

She couldn't stop him, though. He was determined. This was about _John_.

'Sherlock, we need you. _Mary needs you._'

'John and Greg need me too.'

'We're not sure about that. Mary said it.'

'I am. When you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth... I'd expect you to be interested in me saving my friends, _our_ friends, Molly', he added, tilting his head to the side, piercing her with his cold metallic gaze.

She bit her lip. 'Sherlock, don't you see? He's after _you_. It's _you_ that he really wants. He finds no real appeal in John or Greg, other than to lure you in to his little scheme.'

'Then I shall give him just that', Sherlock assured her with a twinkle in his eyes.


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N: ...And the other. -csf_

* * *

-ooo-

Sherlock returned to the protection house walking in long strides that Molly struggled to keep up with. All in all, he was determined and barely tolerating her presence by his side. Not that he wouldn't protect her if the occasion arose, but Moral Molly was not the person to deter him now.

In a fast elegant gait, he climbed the main stairs and chose the first room, kneeling on the floor and scavenging inside John's abandoned duffle bag. In fact, he was unceremoniously throwing his friend's worldly possessions in the air by the time Molly entered the room, and the items of clothing were landing everywhere behind the detective. Socks, trousers, a stripped jumper. Did John really need to shop for clothes in 2nd hand charity shops? _Not the point_, Sherlock needed to focus. Whether John actually favoured charities or if he just kept old worn out clothes was beyond the point right now. It was beyond any of Sherlock's interest. It was... so _John-like_ not to pay any attention to his wardrobe. He only cared about practical things. His patients, Sherlock's food and sleep habits, Mrs Hudson's hip.

He should have taken better care of himself, Sherlock thought vindictively. He should have stayed safe in London. That possibility never even crossed his stubborn hard-head...

Sherlock was very worried about John. Sherlock, the great consulting detective, certified genius, was worried about a washed-up soldier with mended jumpers. (And it felt right.)

Both Sherlock's body and mind were exhausted. But he wouldn't sleep, he wouldn't rest until he had John safe. John would preach about that decision, and Sherlock would disguise a knowing comfortable smile, while hearing him persist in this idea that Sherlock's lifelong habits could be changed. Sherlock was looking forward to it. (Motivation.)

_There_. What he was looking for among the socks and reading choices of his friend (interesting; Mary was still trying to interest John in female-oriented novels, she was definitely persistent)_._ Finally on Sherlock's hands was the one thing he had come looking for: John's travelling medic bag, a sort of extended first aid kit.

John was going to need that again to have a follow-up look on his wife. Sherlock was going to put John's medic bag on his hands and send him back to Mary. Where he should have stayed, keeping everyone around Sherlock safe and protected while Sherlock sorted the whole mess out on his own.

(One by one, the people that Sherlock cared more about in this world were falling.)

The smell of ethanol-based disinfectant, minty ointments and leather always remembered Sherlock of old country family doctors. Only this was John's. Clearly John's in the neat organisation, well-labelled, fully supplied with no needless excess, it was clearly the reflex of John's neat freak streak. And it was Sherlock's forbidden territory from day one. Because it was, in essence, John Watson's core.

Sherlock took the handy shoulder strap of the bag and pulled it on.

'Sherlock...'

Again he had been caught off-guard by Molly. Nasty new habit of his, of worrying so much. He was distracted. (Mycroft had been right all along; caring is not an advantage.)

'I need to go and get John and Greg.'

'I know', she said calmly, confidently as Molly ever was in Sherlock's abilities.

'Sherlock, you've talked to your brother. Can't he help now?'

The detective shook his head.

'Not now', he assured her, without explaining further.

'Sherlock...'

'I'll get them back, Molly, safe and sound. I promise.'

'How?' Her question was sad. She could see the amazing man in front of her falling to pieces. Hurting John and Greg had crumbled Sherlock's foundations. No matter how strong he played himself to be, he was devastated and emotional. No longer half of the detective he was proud to be. He had crashed down with the rest of the mere mortals. Hurt, afraid, vulnerable, confused, desperately grasping for straws and a chance to change the destiny of the friends that had been so fast to offer their help to Sherlock and Molly.

Molly had been chosen as the target, but Sherlock had been the prize all along. She knew that, but had no other chance than to call for his help. Alone she wouldn't have made it. Even with the amazing team that had been put together for her immediate sake the danger had come too close.

'I know where they are, Molly. It's easy, it's written all over the ground. The brick dust, the traces of rust and cotton fibre. They are being held in a factory. Not a factory in use, they'd never sustain their cover in such difficult conditions with two struggling hostages. No, they have been taken to a discontinued factory within three or four hours of distance at most. There aren't too many of those out there', he added, taking out his phone and researching as he spoke.

'You have finally asked for Mycroft's help?'

'Yes', he admitted grudgingly. 'For you and Mary. As I go and get Greg and John back.'

'Sherlock!'

'I'm afraid I can't explain. This is something I need to do myself, Molly.'

-ooo-

The discontinued factory was a long moldy smelling space, mostly silent except for a rhythmic dull pounding at the far end. From a supply closet, it seemed. Sherlock approached it carefully. He knew it wasn't John. John would have tapped an SOS code or another Morse coded message for Sherlock. Could be a trap, but then again, catching Sherlock in the open ground of the factory was so much easier than waiting for him to enter a supply closet.

Sherlock took a deep breath - as deep as the humidity laden atmosphere enticed him to anyway - and unbolted the door from his side. He opened it as he was already holding out his gun in the other hand.

'Greg!' There was obvious relief in Sherlock's voice. As if his usually aloof persona had been put on hold. His usual armour to face the world, the criminals and even his friends, were secondary for now. Only the mission to rescue John was paramount at the moment. 'Where is John, do they have him?' He marked every word coming out of him with a sense of urgency, as he reached out to the DI, immediately taking notice of the improvised bandages that had John's style impressed all over them.

'Yes, they took him, Sherlock.'

'How hurt is he?' Sherlock asked, laying down John's medical bag and opening it. It felt like a sacrilegious act, but John was sure to forgive the intrusion in his bag. (John always forgave.)

'What do you mean?'

'He'd never give himself up!' Sherlock depreciated, short-tempered.

'Well, he did. He traded places with me. I couldn't stop him', Greg confessed with a caught-up voice.

The detective cursed freely (and inventively). 'What did he offer them?'

'What?'

'Pay attention, Greg! They weren't after John. They might not even have known who he is. They are only hired help. Ergo, John convinced them of his importance. How did he do that? What did he offer them?'

The DI's expression grew heavier. 'He offered himself, Sherlock. He talked to _him._ To Moran or Moriarty, I don't know. He's the only one that knows. The conversation opened the door for him and he was in just like that. Suddenly they only wanted him.'

'How come you were left alive, Greg?'

The DI blinked. Fair question, bad way to voice it. Before he could protest, Sherlock backtracked, in another uncharacteristic move: 'Sorry, I meant it strategically.'

'Did you just say "sorry"?' Sherlock never, ever, apologised. Greg felt uncomfortable. 'Fine, look, Sherlock, they left me behind because John... well, he made a deal. He offered no resistance. I was sure they'd double-cross him. But somehow they left me be, like he requested.'

Sherlock closed his eyes, exhausted. '_He_'s taunting me, Greg. Double points. He can get two things in one move.'

'Well, John won't cooperate anymore, now that they don't have me.'

Sherlock nodded, distracted. Greg still confessed:

'Sherlock, John is really sure you'll save him. And me. And you've just pulled the first one off. Together we can save John.'

The consulting detective faced the detective inspector for a couple of seconds, a faint smile softening his features.

'You just got out of a life-threatening situation, worse for wear, and you're volunteering to come along with me for another?'

'Yes. John is my friend too. What he did, I need to repay him.'

Sherlock smile grew sideways. 'I think he'd much rather you stay safe, or stay with his wife.'

'Are you trying to protect me, Sherlock?' Greg tried to understand.

'Yes and no. You know, John and I won't get in each other's way.'

'Yeah, about that. John went all lone soldier of fortune on me.' Greg expected Sherlock to be either shocked or unimpressed. Instead, he clearly saw Sherlock's gaze grow worried.

'Mary and I both miscalculated', he stated cryptically. 'Leave John to me, I can deal with him.'

Greg wasn't so sure. Cautiously, as the consulting detective leaned over the floor and walls on the main area, and examined every piece of evidence left behind by the kidnappers among the fire debris and clutter, Greg embarked on a narrative over the past events.

'Sherlock...' Greg chose his words carefully at the end of his recount. 'John worked it all on his own. No words on his plan. Hell, he didn't even take advantage of me being there. I was his backup and that was all. The backup's bloody backup.'

'Don't be an idiot. He was trying to protect you. Taking charge.' Sherlock's words emerged as he climbed over an old desk to have a look over the broken window panes, and then over his shoulder, calculating the angles and directions of the run down factory. His body angles as sharp and lean as the geometry of the furniture he stood on.

All the while Greg was finally speechless. _The wink._ The wink was an _everything is alright _wink. (Good heavens, John was delusional.)

'Of course you weren't', Sherlock interrupted Greg's thoughts as he noticed the older man's silence.

'What?'

'You weren't in charge, Greg. Of course you weren't.'

'I'm both older and a representative of the law', the DI scolded him. Sherlock didn't even mind, smirking.

'Did you much good, did it?'

Greg glared at him.


	17. Chapter 17

_A/N (considering there is actually someone out there that can put up with this erratic updates):  
__Left this one on hold for longer than I ever intended to. (Apologies.) Thought a small context chapter was in order, to get me back in the flow, before the plot continues. Hopefully I can pick it up more regularly from here on. -csf_

* * *

-ooo-

Sherlock sat in front of the open computer. He was ignoring that the laptop casing was bright pink, with white polka dots. And that it was obviously Molly's. And, mostly, Sherlock was trying to ignore the fact that he was about to willingly establish his first contact with Jim Moriarty after St Bart's rooftop's decisive events.

There was a whirlwind of emotions on the detective at this point. Not least important was the feeling of excitement. (John wouldn't appreciate it.) The tinge of defiance and challenge that made him feel more alive, more focused, more engaged. On the metaphorical other side of the screen there resided the one person that in all of Sherlock's life had actually given him a run for his money. Jim had been the other one, the other side of himself, that road he needed to travel in order to recognise his own faults and strengths, even to make him appreciate where he had made it in life and who he had there to support him.

In the process, Sherlock had to turn his back to the safe life he had leaded. To his privileged routines, such as when he took out his violin at the end of a peaceful evening to compose what his heart felt in unspoken truth abundant words, to the little gestures of friendship and care of the ones that never left him behind no matter how stroppy Sherlock played out to be. In cold stormy days in the run in Central Europe, Sherlock had learnt very fast to identify all of what he had not valued properly. And to miss them, the memories of what he had once. Of what he could still reclaim if only he persevered, despite the tiredness, the hunger, the pain, the darkness. They had become his motivation, his reason for survival. Through that time away, he had actually become convinced he could have it all back. From where it had been left off. A slight hiccup, and back on the wagon. Moriarty was little more than an inconvenience in his reasoning, when the hunt for his ring started. One simple hiccup that extended for two years in the end. Little by little, every piece of evidence uncovered a new strand in Moriarty's web, as Sherlock tolled to wipe it all down to the ground.

John would have been proud, he had started to think from time to time. In the darkest coldest nights Sherlock even pondered writing his own blog, safely keeping his writings hidden till the moment of his return. _Home_. Baker Street. One day he realised he was writing more and more personalised narratives. No more he could defend his need to scientifically and accurately maintain records of events unfolded. Sherlock was writing to someone. Silent monologues of a man who is alone and in danger. Who needs the sound of his own voice as the proof that he is still there. One day he had come to realise he was writing to John. Because John had taught him about writing his accounts to the world. Now it was Sherlock's turn to be the writer.

In a way he understood Molly's need to expose her heart to a stranger online, depending on that universal thread of humanity that linked us all, that common ground shared. Only problem seemed to be that Molly had chosen the wrong invisible person. All the right keywords, the construction of the profile indicating a normal average person; all a mask for Jim to circle back, sense the ground and the new balance surrounding Sherlock.

Jim had Sherlock return to a very changed world. Baker Street was still homely, but it didn't quite feel like the same, not until the people started gathering around in it again. This time around, lesson learnt, Sherlock had allowed himself to smile in front of sweet Mrs Hudson when she went on and on about missing him in 221B. He had even started letting his cold mask down in front of John.

_John. _He would react more stiffly to this new Sherlock. Because John couldn't return the emotion quite the same way. Not yet. He was still processing the shock of what had happened. Sherlock, certified genius of London, hadn't quite taken to account the fragility of the human heart. All the time Sherlock was moving on to a more open frame of heart, John had been stuck at mourning a loss and then a return. (Yes, Sherlock had learnt one can _mourn a_ _return_, when again it shatters one's reality, and exposes the fragility of the human heart.) In the end, John was rebounding as always. John Watson was more resilient than a rubber ball, bounced against jagged edges all around. Possibly even more resilient than sulphurous bacteria, Sherlock considered. The one constant in John Watson seemed to be his incredible capability of resurfacing after every attack made on his core.

That was exactly the gift that Sherlock was banking on, as John was being held captive by Jim's men and they were taking too long to make contact. Demands, gloating, ransoms, Sherlock was eagerly waiting for anything, as he sat immobile on the edge of his seat in front of the polka dotted laptop.

John had given himself in to protect Greg. In a second plane, he was protecting all of the team. _His _team. John would never fail his team. Mary had been grazed by a bullet in the leg, Molly was scared for her life, Sherlock was a high prized catch. John had played strategically, as he saw the whole plain field with the accuracy of a man who had lived in the war for far too long. It wasn't a death wish, much on the contraire, it was a life wish. John had given himself up so that all around him could remain safe, and when Sherlock found an opening, John was quite sure Sherlock would come for him, and bring him back to safety. Holding on would be the tricky part. Only John was made of resilient material. John was as resilient as sulphurous bacteria and rubber balls. Now it was up to Sherlock to deliver his part of the bargain.

'Anything yet, Sherlock?'

It was Molly, startling him. She approached him with a worried frown and a knowing posture. Sherlock bit back an angry retort. If he wasn't briskly tapping the computer keys than it was fairly obvious to guess that all he got from the other side was as good as statics and white noise on a radio. He knew Molly meant well, he knew she was equally worried about John, and that she cared that Sherlock was feeling responsible for alienating John into this rallied up version of a daredevil Captain Watson. They both knew that it wasn't only Sherlock's doing, but what he had effectively conjured was nothing short of the perfect brewing storm that had taken off when John had found himself at a position where only his self-sacrifice could protect his friends.

'Jim knows he holds all the pieces, he can keep me here as long as he wants', Sherlock recognised. 'Yet, even this game will wear off its amusement to the mastermind criminal at some point.'

'Sherlock', Molly started, looking him on straight into his eyes, 'you know this person cannot be Jim. You know _I_ know it. _You_ know it as well. _We_ made sure.'

Sherlock hummed, disengaged. He kept his angular face enlightened by the white screen, denouncing the shadows under the eyes.

'Sherlock, why do you call him _Jim_, like the others? You and I both know Jim is dead.'

The detective hummed again, keeping his secrets to himself.


	18. Chapter 18

_A/N: I have no excuse for this delay - except maybe Real Life. (Sorry.) I have missed this story, though, so I kept making comebacks. In the end I scrapped it all off and started fresh. -csf_

* * *

-ooo-

Eerie silence. Sherlock couldn't quite wrap his mind around the stillness and quietness of Jim's latest playground. Rusty iron, decaying mouldy wood, stagnated rainwater accumulations. Could have been the end of the world for all that Sherlock cared. It was also the summoned location for the final encounter with the twisted genius in order to find John, and trade him as a hostage for anything Jim might want.

At the same time, it didn't quite make sense.

Not the eerie silence. Perfect blank canvas to expose the fragility of the human heart, to show Baker Street's grander than life genius that he was painfully human. Loud heartbeats on his chest that seemed to reverberate in his skull. Acid burning in the pit of his stomach. John should have never been subjected to that. In his association with Sherlock John had become the pawn in a doomed chess game. The man that was more resilient than rubber balls did not deserve to be subjected to this. Being a useless pawn in someone else's game – not for the first time.

Only this time the location chosen served a different purpose for Sherlock. It told him the solution to the case in hands. It made sense of all the little maladjustments along the way.

Now all Sherlock needed was to rescue John and confirm his suspicions.

Sherlock lowered himself to the dust covered ground. This wasn't the sort of place Jim would normally choose. Astray from the over-the-top flamboyant gibberish places the dangerous mastermind used to select as a background for his plans. This could have been the work of a hell-bounded Jim Moriarty, relishing on misery; not the old times Jim, that seek relief of his restless disturbed mind, that fought to create puzzles of mayhem and destruction in order to self-assert himself, to gather attention and what he assumed in a twisted way to be respect and power.

In the two years Sherlock spent chasing the remnants of Jim's web of power, Sherlock had often felt that he was chasing ghosts.

There had been puzzles. Oh, plenty of those. Each step marked by a new mystery, opening up the possibilities and clues for the next one. Sherlock had strived to bring down the web, one portion of the strings at a time, each time further inwards towards the dangerous centre that still held high, powerful, and prideful after Jim's irreversible and final decision.

Sherlock might have appreciated it. (A small undeniable part of him did.) One last great legacy from the evil genius was the beloved gift bestowed on his archenemy. Only something that Greg Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson, and John Watson, and Molly Hooper (a central key, with her quiet acceptance and enabling) had brought into his life had made it impossible for Sherlock to separate fully from the humanity the puzzles toyed with. The self-proclaimed sociopath had come very far in his career by practising distance and analytical reasoning. He now failed to do that. Every puzzle without John by his side to act like a voiced conscience had brought out Sherlock's self-discovered humanity. In a way, John's moral guidance had bitterly become a part of him. He couldn't have turned it off, for losing it was to lose sense of the home and life – Baker Street – he so desperately wanted to return to.

Sherlock had chased ghosts till slowly he felt he had become one himself.

The same ghastly blackened lonely shadow of his long coat trailing behind him, he slowly made his way through the old industrial structure's enthrals. Quiet dubbed footsteps as he approached the end side of the building, where the old furnace's machinery, all steal and rust, had been the very heart of the building. "I will burn the heart out of you" – Jim's promise had become etched in Sherlock's mind forever. He now had no doubt he would find John where the prophecy earned a new meaning.

Gun in one hand, Sherlock reached the other hand towards the door handle. This was simple, easy – too easy – and he twisted it. Sherlock held it down for what felt like eternal seconds, waiting for some trap to be set in motion. Still suspicious, he pulled the door open and—

Someone crossed the threshold in a sharp move, holding up an iron crowbar. The shorter figure froze reflexively at the sight of Sherlock, the iron bar sliding off his suddenly slackened fingers to the ground with a metallic thump noise.

'Sherlock?'

John's haggard expression was doubtful, hopeful and confused, as his eyes shined as an incredible blue over the dirty smudged contours of his jaw line, and the dirt in his hair.

'Is that you? Really you?'

All of a sudden John's expression hardened and he resumed control. With a set of his shoulders and a proud expression he smirked before welcoming in a warm voice: 'You took your time, Sherlock!'

Sherlock smirked back, hiding his relief. He had come to rescue John. Instead, Captain John Watson was already making his way out. He shouldn't have expected any less of John. Being some sort of victim really didn't suit him.

'I assume you are ready to go', John pressed him. Sherlock seemed to have lost all his haste, a weight having been lifted off his shoulders, as he analysed the scene in a quick glance.

'You're okay, John', he told him one second, to doubt the next: 'Are you okay?'

John nodded quietly. (A bit too quietly.)

With a tight smile designed to appease John, Sherlock entered the room the soldier had just abandoned after freeing himself on his own. He'd look all around at a fast pace, registering in his almost eidetic memory every last single detail, a morbid curiosity overpowering him now. He needed to know what John had gone through – and John himself might not tell him as it is.

Cut off ropes fallen to the dirt ground by the overturn chair, several footsteps of different individuals in confusing patterns showing that John had put up a fight even as he was being taken in, an unequal fight he should have never expected to win, scuffle marks even on the dingy walls, visible under the post-modern halogen lights aligned on the ceiling – one of them blinking rhythmically as repetitive lightenings on a thunderous dark atmosphere, piercing the duskiness in the stuffy claustrophobic room.

John cleared his throat, behind Sherlock, keeping himself on the threshold of the room, reminding Sherlock of the present moment. 'Let's get out of here, Sherlock. It's driving me mad. It's–' John stopped himself short, squared his shoulders in a military jerk and resumed: 'It's stuffy in here.'

Sherlock nodded with one last look around. 'Smells like sand too', he muttered.

John did a double take on his friend. Next thing, his limbs had turned into jelly, he was doubling himself in half, with a big sigh of relief washing over him, and a small tremor to accompany it. Stunned, Sherlock faced him at once. Before he could muster a question, John looked up, innocence shining through his rounded eyes, a misplaced happy smile. Sherlock couldn't grasp why, but the sight of the smile that so much characterised that resilient core pushed out a reflection of his own smile, in equal measures of wonder and relief. John gulped drily before questioning, as a man wanting to be sure: 'You can smell it too? Seriously, Sherlock? I thought I was–' He cut himself short, closing his expression all of a sudden, straightening his shoulders again in the same military fashion, and looking away to nothing in particular. His relief was still imprinted in his features, though, as he stubbornly refused to explain himself.

Sherlock opened his own light coloured eyes wide, comprehension hitting him all of a sudden. The hot smell as the giveaway, the high temperature in the abandoned building, the flashing streaks of light and repetitive metallic grounding sounds that thundered occasionally in the sun all dungeon-like room. And at the centre of it, a former soldier had been tied to a chair. Like a spectator that was powerless to dictate his fate. The war-like scenario and excess stimulus were all meant to conjure a perfect storm that John knew all about, and Sherlock hadn't expected in a long, long time. As much as is possible to plan, Sherlock was meant to come find a triggered soldier, regressed to the battlefield.

In the end Sherlock had ignored the fact that Jim knew of John's PTSD diagnosis – even Mycroft knew, even Mary knew, possibly even Anderson could have found out if he wanted to. Only John believed his medical records could remain private, Sherlock had no such illusions in the contemporary digitalised world.

Sherlock was to find a shattered soldier, a fallen pawn in their chess game of the man who was usually the steady ground in the partnership.

(Sherlock was to face his own frailness through John's.)

Only John had been far more resilient, and these _things_ couldn't be programmed like that. All the usual triggers had been present, starting with an anxiety-ridden situation where John had gradually become hurt and alone and abandoned. Something, though – and Sherlock hesitated in calling it _faith _in his (best) friend – had kept John grounded through the worse of it all.

Again, John was more resilient than rubber balls bouncing off jagged edges. Innocence-driven John had kept a child-like belief that he'd be helped by his team, the best of London, and had even taken to himself the task of helping along in his rescue.

'Let's get out of here, John', Sherlock finally agreed.

'What was the purpose of all this? How does this make sense?' the doctor wanted to know.

'Later, John. I'll explain it all, I promise.' (He would not hold back, he owed John that much, yet he couldn't bear to add to John's endured distress just yet.)

'Did any of this bring you answers?' John asked after a quiet nod. (Faith and trust, yet again.)

'Yes, John.'

The blond man nodded slowly. 'I've done my part, then', he quietly muttered without expecting an answer. 'And Greg? His ankle?'

'He'll be fine given time. You should know', Sherlock pointed out loyally. John was again worrying about others. Coming out of his own personal hell and he was more worried about a sprain he had tended to as a doctor. It was very John-like and it got Sherlock to relax somewhat. It was also a proof that John was intent on grounding himself on the right side of reality after what he had been through.

'And Mary? Is her wound closing up okay, no discharge or temperature, pain to the expected level? Did she do a reaction to the painkillers? She has never let me see her medical records from before becoming the Mary we know, she always insisted I married Mary Morstan and not the woman she was before.'

Sherlock nodded to the implicit request, full of trust. That Sherlock could share two secrets, on with Mary and her past, and one with John and their future, and be the link between them if ever needed, without betraying fully the confidence or disclosure.

'I'll take a look, but I'm sure she would have told you, John, if there was something to watch out for.'

Slowly they were making their way back out of the abandoned building, Sherlock leading the way with his gun, John just a couple of steps behind.


	19. Chapter 19

_A/N: I'm not even going to dare to make an A/N, due to incredible delay... –csf_

* * *

-ooo-

In his restless daydream, Sherlock bent himself to the floor, reaching for the broken man lying cold and alone in a dark machinery room. It was painful to witness how much he had been wronged. A mere pawn, a leverage in a game while the real enemy lurched in the shadows, waiting to make a move, to contact a distraught Sherlock, so finally he could be given the chance to reach this John.

Sherlock saw it more easily now. They – the other side, a dark team – had tried to extract information from John. The soldier knew it was coming and expected no less. This was one of the reasons – the obvious one – for the delay in contacting Sherlock for ransom. John had held his ground, keeping secrets of whatever information he held that belonged to Sherlock. And so _it_ had carried on for much longer than expected.

John Watson was a noble fool. Sherlock would have never willingly given him more information than he would have been able to share to save himself, if it ever came to that. What John knew, he could have given away to protect himself, with no detriment to Sherlock's plan. Only he wouldn't, in the end. Too loyal for his own good.

Now he stood broken on the floor, because he had protected useless secrets. (John, the loyal soldier.)

Sherlock was so angry at John he'd have screamed at him only he would listen.

In his daydream, Sherlock knew John couldn't listen.

What Sherlock had feared from the start, since he was surprised by the intense bond of his friendship with his ordinary flatmate, had been the conjured image that kept him going in Europe when all was against him. The certainty that he was keeping John and the people he cared about safe.

If Jim Moriarty was the dark side of Sherlock mirrored so easily, John Watson was no less as a conductor of light, of Sherlock's good side, the one that contradicted his own self-perceived sociopathic ways.

What Sherlock saw on the floor was his good side breached at last.

It was to avoid this imaginary that Sherlock had jumped off a rooftop, that he had deserted the life he knew and become an exile, a hated and shattered man in the eyes of the world. This was why, Sherlock rationalised, he had always kept one last arm-length distance from John. (Because Sherlock was toxic.)

All for nothing.

Sherlock's fears, materialised in front of him. Only Sherlock knew this was a daydream, an abstraction of a reality that had been a possibility but not an outcome, and the pitiful agony at his stomach would eventually end.

For all John had gone through, it could have been far worse to the fallen soldier. He was a bystander to the end game all along, and not the real target. (Sherlock.) Not like when the real Moriarty – and not this ghost-like version of him – was the threat.

This ghost shadow of Jim Moriarty had finally exhibited one main difference from the original – a crack in the mirrored image. One that Sherlock was sure to explore as a reverential appreciation of John's endurance through the nightmare.

-ooo-

'Sherlock, can you hear me in there?'

A shadow sweeping in front of his glazed eyes and Sherlock focused on the words and the man worrying about him. John: bruised temple and cheek, stiff shoulder, and mostly heading back to Alright, he was worrying about the detective sat on the floor, legs crossed, mind too far away to be reached.

'John!'

'Hello there, welcome back!'

'What is it, John?' Sherlock simulated impatience. John wouldn't buy into it for a second.

'Got us some food, Sherlock. Time to eat', he directed caringly.

Detective and doctor had checked in at a roadside dingy inn, under satellite surveillance of Mycroft Holmes and the British Government. A small pit stop on their way back to meet the rest of the team at a secure location, again courtesy of a very smug British Government – that is, Mycroft Holmes. (Who else?)

Sherlock would have pay far worse prices to ensure that John enjoyed a blissful pause in the game. Not that John was aware of the full deal. No, he even thought it necessary to have periodical look out glances through the closed curtains window.

'It's okay, John', Sherlock told him, maybe of minimalist fashion. Seeing John adjust back into his usual self gave Sherlock more comfort than he would expect. He couldn't bring himself to tell his friend that Mycroft had taken the reigns for now, could he?

'We should have carried on, Sherlock. Molly shouldn't be alone.'

'Molly's got Mycroft.' (There, John has been officially told!)

'Wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy', John joked lightly, glancing out of the window again. He strained to recall a time when Molly and Mycroft had been face to face, or their interactions, in his presence.

Knowing Mycroft, Molly wouldn't have made the acquaintance of Sherlock's brother by being kidnapped, travelling on the back of a black car with not-really-Anthea, and offered money to spy on Sherlock on a homemade morality test. That was far too crude for Molly. Possibly not-really-Anthea would have gone to the morgue, trying to gain Molly's confidence slowly, and build a fake friendship from then on. Mycroft Holmes often hid a bluntness in his interactions with John, as if like his little brother, he enjoyed throwing John off-balance to gauge his reactions, but he knew enough of human behaviour (unlike Sherlock, who was more innocent in a sense) not to do that to Molly. No, if anything, he'd expect Mycroft to be in his best politeness, fake smiles, and the same dead cold eyes with which he faced the world. Courteous to the point of resembling himself sympathetic, mostly not to aggravate his baby brother. Yes, that was what John had come to expect of the British Government's shadowed embodiment.

Then again, just because John hadn't witnessed it, Mycroft and Molly could still be close palls for all he knew. Especially after their shared secret of Sherlock's faked death. How many secret meetings, how many hushed phone calls, had there been between the two conspirers?

Jealousy and hurt, that's what John had just walked himself into. Thinking too hard, that was his problem. He should have left all the thinking to Sherlock, the brainy one. Thinking only made John feel wronged nowadays. He had forgiven Sherlock, he had told him that and he took it very seriously. Out of honour (and possibly common sense as well), John couldn't, and wouldn't, bring St Bart's up again.

If anything, St Bart's had taught John that no matter the camaraderie with Sherlock, John would always be out of the loop. John had come to accept that there was no possible demonstration of loyalty that would convince Sherlock. When it came to it, John was just not clever enough to protect the information Sherlock had. It wasn't about bravery or will power. It was something else entirely, and it left John feeling deflated that Molly had what he lacked, to be Sherlock's confident to the fullest extent.

Maybe he could still be proven useful in some other way, he realised, as he gently fingered the draped curtains away to glance at the roadside exterior. He was a soldier, and being that side of himself was something he could easily give.

'John. Told you we don't need to leave just yet', Sherlock reminded him with a minute sigh.

'We really do.'

'In case you missed the cue, I did tell you Mycroft's got his big brother's eyes on us.'

All of a sudden, John stood up straighter in shock. 'He must be summoning the SWAT team right now, because we've got company, Sherlock.'

Sherlock opened his eyes wide. 'You must have been tagged with some sort of locating GPS signal, John! How could you not check yourself, your clothes, your shoes, your hair, your sub-dermal layers?' he asked angrily.

'_Someone_ used up all the hot water before I got there, remember?' John grumped back, grabbing his medic bag and already pushing Sherlock along to the door.

For a single instant, Sherlock wondered if he shouldn't check the level of threat himself, if the exhausted soldier wasn't temporarily paranoid as a consequence of the recent ordeal. (No, this was John.) He brushed the thought away immediately.

-ooo-

Somewhere across London's outskirts, Mycroft Holmes was turning lazily the page to the political section of a newspaper. It was _entertaining_, to say the least, to see the reporters' inventions to fill the blanks in the latest political scandals. It gave Mycroft a feeling of complacency, of a job well done. Another crisis averted, where the thieving diplomat that came visit the Royal Family was caught red-handled trying to make espionage his way of life. Mycroft men's had put a stop to that and pressed the old diplomat to _reconsider._ The old man had announced to the world he was retiring early due to health problems. Mycroft had convinced the world that the diplomat's visit had been a pretext to have his retirement blessed by Queen and Country. Silly, since it wasn't his queen or his country, but people often believed everything they read.

With a brief contented sigh, Mycroft glanced at the smart driver in uniform by his side, and twisted his mouth in distaste to his front seat. With a haughty quirk of a brow he pressed a button between him and the driver, lowering the opaque glass divider between the limousine's front and passengers at the back. With his most appropriate polite smile, Mycroft inquired: 'I trust you are comfortable back there?'

Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper and Mary Watson occupied the back. The first two sat in one of the two long seats, and in the second, facing backwards to them and to Mycroft, Mary was resting with her leg raised.

The detective inspector frowned easily. 'Peachy. I haven't been kidnapped in a while. I almost missed it', Greg snapped back to the controlling orchestrator that had chosen not to mingle with them.

Mycroft wondered if John's personality wasn't rubbing off on Greg, now. He was usually more quiet and acceptant at other kidnappings. That is, _invitations_ to comfortably change locations.

'I see. And Mrs Watson?' he insisted, still sounding distant.

Mary smirked and played along, by her own rules. 'Aw, you _do_ care! I'm touched, _Mycroft!_'

Mycroft hint at an eye roll. 'Perhaps some adjustment to your level of painkillers is needed, Mrs Watson.'

She gave him a very nasty look. 'I'll leave that to my doctor. Any news on John and Sherlock yet?'

'If you come to know me better one day, Mrs Watson, you find that I'm cold enough to have given you any news straight away.'

'I appreciate that', Mary sustained. (Sincerely.) By her side of the glass divider, Greg and Mary were somewhat taken back by her posture, she noticed. Mary sighed. This was why she rather have confrontational talks with the Holmes brothers than all the friendly chitchats in the world with John's friends. Mycroft and Mary were not far astray from Sherlock and Mary, all three of them able to speak freely in emotionless terms, sincere straightforward facts and figures, instead of misleading... _feelings_.

Only Molly had kept herself silenced. By her side, Greg laid a gentle hand on her arm, trying to comfort her. No matter the misguided displays of rationality and order around them, Greg knew none of them could truly hide from the strain of the recent events. Even if he admitted that he, himself, was trying hard to do the same.


	20. Chapter 20

-ooo-

The present race through some woodland terrain evoked painful memories for Sherlock. Just like that time in Serbia, right before he was viciously caught as he was making his way through Europe, fighting the last remnant of Jim Moriarty's network. It had kept him going the firm belief that it was the last stretch in a long run. A run from home, friends, a way of life; a run to chase demons and shadows. That history now repeating itself, with an injured John by his side, was more painful than he could have ever anticipated.

'What's the plan, Sherlock?' John asked bravely, though out of breath, as they pushed branches away to storm through.

(There is no plan.) Sherlock glanced quickly at the former soldier, putting up a fight. Like many other times before, Sherlock opted not to be completely direct with him. 'Mycroft will soon hack whatever GPS tracker you've got planted on you and come meet us.'

'I must be going insane', John blurted as he jumped over a fallen trunk of a tree, mimicking Sherlock, 'because I'd actually welcome your brother right now.' He smirked defiantly as he met Sherlock's gaze.

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder, rapidly. They were gaining distance; but for how long if indeed John was being traced continuously? They needed to make time for some deductions.

'Did you eat anything there, John?' he asked, maybe a bit more desperate than he'd like to recognise himself.

John glanced at him with dignity marking his honest features. 'Are you sure you weren't the one getting tagged?' he fought back. 'Maybe taking some memorabilia from the old factories?' he snapped back in his defence, only too knowledgeable.

'Definitely not! I'm not an amateur.' Sherlock defended himself, with as much dignity as John.

The blondish man just shook his head. 'Then I don't get it, Sherlock. How did they find us?'

It finally dawned on Sherlock that he was being too clever. This wasn't a sophisticated operation, it had never been such. It was a blunt coercion and scare tactic, and it employed the most basic techniques.

Which sadly meant there was no electronic signal for Mycroft to trace and intervene at the right time. This was old school. Sentinels, binoculars, radio communication. (If anything, this was John's world, not Sherlock's.)

Now that Baker Street's genius held the unequivocal answer to the basic question, he was able to provide a solution. Sherlock's style. (Cheating the game.) He took out his phone and rapidly speed-dialled one of the few memorised numbers. It was immediately answered.

'Mycroft! It's your prodigal brother. Care to give us a ride?...'

"Naturally", he heard being said calmly on the other side. "I trust you don't oppose an overcrowded limousine?"

-ooo-

A dark limousine was parked by the roadside, under the scrutiny of the driver, carrying a small handgun. A second limousine had just left the scene, parting the team according to Mycroft's strategic precautions. Greg, Mary and Molly were to leave first, and meet them at the secure location later. Not that the detective inspector, John's sniper wife and the pathologist were happy to be separated from the rest of the group in some romantic period effort to keep the women and the wounded protected and safe, waiting for the men's return. Greg had been quite grumpy as he protested endlessly, Molly had left with thin lips quite pressed together in disagreement, and Mary had been a bit more verbal about it, but in the end Sherlock's team recognised that asserting their standpoints was making them all waste valuable time, against a very firm (stubborn) Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock's older brother didn't really mind them. What he needed now was coherence and a careful recount of the events. He needed the key players together so that he and Sherlock could make sense of this ...setback.

On the other side of the road, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were walking the last few steps towards the car where Mycroft sat comfortably, supervising them with a frown. John had that defiant (happy?) smirk that Mycroft recognised from surveillance cameras in the times he and Sherlock were single-handedly fighting crime. He must be slightly weak, for he carried himself proudly but stiff and his complexion seemed pale. Basic persuasive manoeuvres aggravated by the recent shoulder injury, Mycroft could read at once. Sherlock looked equally as haggard as the shorter man, a haunted expression still lingering in his eyes, the same one that Mycroft had witnessed as the detective desperately searched for John Watson. Not for the first time, the pair of them had become a cohesive unit that mirrored each other's state of mind. Not really a surprise for the man studying them, for Sherlock and John together was the most happy and adjusted Mycroft had ever seen of his brother. Sherlock Holmes was not a man to allow others to mess with the things he valued the most in his life, his friendship with that apparently unimportant man being on the top of the list.

'You're late, Sherlock', Mycroft warned dully, as he turned the page on the open newspaper in his hands. Sherlock's eyes wandered through the front page, with the ambassador's story, and at once he detected hints of his brother's meddling in national security affairs.

'Spoiled your hard earned day off work, brother dear?' he annoyed easily, opening the back door for John to climb inside the car first. (A caring gesture, done as a mindless task.)

Mycroft smirked. 'Don't be silly, I never take real breaks from work. Which reminds me, we have Mr Moriarty's affair to solve. Fancy you could speed it up?' he turned another page.

Sherlock plunged himself in the limousine's back seat and assured quietly: 'It's already solved, Mycroft, do catch up.'

By his side in the back seat, John opened his eyes wide. (Wait, what?)

'Think you can share with us?' Mycroft encouraged, in a fake sweetness.

'Later. I need to gather my team first.'

Much to John's surprise, Mycroft raised no problems and just cleared his throat. The driver correctly interpreted that as a sign to start the car and move to an unknown hideout.

-ooo-

Greg Lestrade was not a man to patiently wait for someone else to take the lead and sort things out, without his intervention. He furiously paced up and down the small clean lines room – borderline comfortable, terribly generic looking – then he muttered under his breath for a while longer, in the end he allowed his exhaustion and sprained ankle to wear him down and, taking a seat by the window, he sulked as his opinion as to being left out.

He was, therefore, distracted when the door was gently opened, revealing Sherlock and John's quiet comeback.

'Hi, mate, are you okay?' John greeted at once, Sherlock quiet by his side, perhaps allowing him to take the lead in the social part of the gathering.

Greg's look of relief over his friend when he first laid eyes on him was evident. Immediately, reflexively even, he tried to walk towards both men, only to find his walk impaired by his ankle sprain. He looked down on his bandaged foot with some embarrassment. Him, the seasoned Scotland Yard's finest, defeated by a minor injury, had parted with John over a day ago under different circumstances. John had given himself up, unannounced, to relieve Greg of his share of holding on for the team. Then, much in the same style of selflessness, Sherlock had done the same to rescue his friend. It was awkwardly, therefore, that Greg looked back up to both friends, stoic and brave, returning home from enemy ground.

Greg's hesitation permitted him to study the smaller man more carefully. He looked a bit badgered but none of that could compete with the daring challenging light that had returned to the doctor's face. Side by side with Sherlock he looked strangely comfortable, confident, even after what had happened. (And Greg wished sincerely none of the worse had happened.)

'You two took your time coming back!' he joked, still a bit embarrassed.

As a response, John had a downcast glance, that at the window's direct light revealed more easily the strain of walking through the frosted woods for the last couple of hours, evident in his exhausted ashen features. Immediately, though, he would look up to Sherlock with a brief smile. He spoke the conversational answer for both of them, as he often did, at Baker Street or at the Yard: 'We're here, Greg, sorry it took us so long.'

Sherlock looked down at John in a sympathetic manner, allowing him to continue taking the lead.

'Are you okay, mate?' Greg came closer, with a supportive hand over the closest furniture. 'How's your head?'

Sherlock's neck whiplashed in the secretive doctor's direction.

John waved it off at once. 'Oh, that! That was nothing. I'm fine! Which reminds me; we need to have a look at your ankle again, Greg. Have a seat.'

'John?'

'Anywhere, Greg. Sherlock's got my medical bag.'

'John, I'm fine. Peachy, even, if you compare the both of us. Will _you_ have a seat?' Greg pointed at the car. 'We need to have a look at you.'

'Why?' the blondish doctor frowned.

'_John, sit down!'_ the DI barked an order, much too frustrated. To his surprise, John didn't even twitch. He stared strongly ahead for a couple of seconds before tilting his head to the side, slightly. Sherlock hurried to intervene. That tilt to the side, that was a tell too obvious even for Greg not to understand. That was when the placid doctor slipped into the man that survived in the battlefield, witness to what shredded most man apart (it may have shredded John somewhat as well) and got him through with no visible scar in sight (they were most definitely hidden, and not just his shoulder under a vast array of jumpers, there were some others that John revisited in his nightmares).

Sherlock hurried to position himself physically between the two men engaged in some sort of death stare competition. Each of them decided on their emphatic comforting ways to the point of idiocy, trying to patronise the other to submission. With a glance at Greg Sherlock tried to convey the import message the DI, in all his empathy he was failing to perceive as the best answer. (Play along, Greg.)

Greg sat down in a chair, chewing his impressions under his breath. Sherlock then turned to red-eared angry doctor. John immediately demanded: 'Sherlock, I need to have a look at Greg's ankle! Will you let him know this avoidance is silly?'

'I've had a good look myself, John.'

John gave him a sad smile to say: 'You're not a doctor, Sherlock.'

'I shall have a look at the phalanges, metatarsals, tarsus, tibia and fibula.'

'That's nice, Sherlock, really nice, but that won't—'

Sherlock interrupted: 'Left occipital.'

'That's nowhere close to an ankle, sorry.'

'I mean yours, John.' Sherlock took his head up to John's head. As his fingers gently brushed the pasty hair, John flinched. Sherlock smudged the brown-red tinting in his fingers against his thumb. John looked down on it, and blinked.

'Oh, I see', he stated, his eyes set on his friend's fingertips.

'I'd rather you'd have a seat, but I will not insist on it.'

'Good, because I am not dizzy nor is my balance compromised.'

Sherlock would beg to differ, seeing the walk they had to get from the inn, and the fact that John had failed to walk in a straight line, always veering towards the right. If John had been alone, Sherlock wondered how many circles he'd walk around before realising he was back at the starting house again. (Twenty-three point two times, Sherlock estimated; it had been a long walk through the woods.)

'No, I mean because I am taller than you, I can save you the trouble of sitting down.'

'Very amusing, Sherlock', John commented, so drily that even Sherlock had to understand it wasn't meant honestly.

Greg cleared his throat to summon their attention. 'I'm sorry, Sherlock, but my money is on John if I need to pick one of the two of you to play doctor. Can you save this excessive medical contest for later?'

With a relieved expression, John insisted on rapidly checking up Greg. 'Where have you learnt this, Sherlock?' John asked, well-impressed, as he studied the bandages.

(Learnt it from you.) 'I saw a doctor do that one day', Sherlock said, as if nothing much. His eyes were locked on the doctor's movements, though. Competent, decided, not at all suffering from shock or exhaustion. With a life mission of his hands, John looked attentive, energetic, light, once again. Maybe Greg had a point, Sherlock considered. The routine gestures and considerations of his profession lulled John back to a feeling of security more than all the assurances of safety Mycroft had provided on the ride to this safe house.

'That doctor you studied must have done a good job, then', John complimented Sherlock's attention to detail, never realising he had been the studied one.

And Sherlock would never tell him that. John was to remain essential in his doctor skills, among others. He was to remain needed for the obvious as we was needed for the hidden motives. Sherlock would never let John believe his knowledge and skills had been learned by the autodidact genius and that he was now redundant. John couldn't ever be, by definition, redundant.


	21. Chapter 21

-ooo-

Faint muscular spasms accompanied John's slow breathing pattern. In his sleeping state, John's face was truly honest, missing the restraints of social behaviour. Maybe that was why Mary enjoyed so much looking at her husband's sleeping expressions. Like a child, when he fell into the deeper stages and dreamt, a very young looking John would allow faint smiles, frowns, quirks of the brow that could fill a book with stories. And Mary had learnt to sort the plots by glance, always keeping an eye out for that one expression that wouldn't fit the pattern. One of blankness, that usually preceded John's persistent nightmares. Even if Mary knew that it was useless to try to wake John at that point. He was doomed to repeat it from start to end, endless times, relive the ghosts he carried deep inside him, the ones he felt it was only right to harbour in his heart. Mary believed that no amount of carefully considered therapy could ever part John from his nightmares so long as in his core he felt them to be natural, right. For denying them would be to deny a part of himself.

Mary saw none of that today, for which she was grateful. John's expression was young and carried a hint of a sweet smile. Mary fancied he could be smiling at her in his dream, and allowed herself to replicate his smile.

'Mary.' Her name came as a surprise, yanking her from those intimate reflections. Immediately her own expression grew heavier, guarded, as she turned her head to face Sherlock.

'Sherlock. You brought him back', she noted, inexpressive.

The great detective frowned, confused, then glanced at John, slumped in a sofa of Mycroft's protected house. Arguably England's most secure location at the moment. Brought John back, she meant. Well, of course, he'd never leave John a captive to an unknown plan!

Mary sighed. Sherlock could be a genius according to John, but often he missed out on the most basic social clues. She couldn't help but smile and nearly chuckle. He was like a child and only John could have the true patience help him along in a non-judgemental way. ("No, Sherlock, we don't tell people that they've put on weight... Exception made for your brother, of course.")

'John is alright, Sherlock', Mary cut to the chase, with a sigh.

The tall man nodded, with a trace of vulnerability in his expression. Mary could read right through his momentary fragility. John was a fixed point in a changing universe for the both of them, a steady beat they had both grown accustomed to. Having him gone had taken a toll on both of them in ways that John wouldn't ever recognise, and that objectively it didn't quite make sense.

'Have you solved it already, Sherlock?' Mary whispered softly.

'Yes.'

'Are you going to tell them?'

(Them. Tell them, she said.) Mary had reached the solution to the case as well. John had chosen, in the whole of London, one of the sharpest minds for his companion, and it was paying off.

'Yes.'

'And have you got a plan?'

Sherlock offered her a blank smile. (Working on it.)

-ooo-

'Hey, Molly, are you alright?' John asked softly, as he opened her room's door after her permission, not long after his small nap.

'John', she smiled honestly, putting down a book still set in the early pages despite the couple of hours they had been on the secure location. 'I'm sure I should be asking you that.'

The former army doctor shrugged. 'Nothing I couldn't handle, no big deal... So, hm... I came here to apologise for the time you've spent with only half a team protecting you. I tried to get them away from you, Sherlock and Mary to keep you three safe.'

'You're apologising?' she realised in a tense voice, an angry smile creeping up on her expression.

'Yes, I am. You came to us for help, not be left with little coverage as you zoomed into cover after an attack.'

'You're worrying about me?' she identified.

'Yes', John confirmed, honestly confused.

'How about Mary and Sherlock?'

'I've talked it over with Mary, of course, I—'

'And Sherlock? Do you realise how horrible it was for him, John?'

'Well, I suppose, I didn't mean to—'

'He was worried sick, John!'

John's expression turned strained at that point. 'It was the right thing to do, Molly. I don't regret it. I do regret that Greg got hurt in the process, though.'

'How could you do that to Sherlock?' She felt that her control was breaking and she was about to scream at the army captain.

'I really didn't mean to mess up so badly and get caught', he admitted, embarrassed. 'I figured I had good chances to divert the enemies by engaging them from the left flank and then—'

'He went on his own, with no backup, to rescue you, John. _Can't you see it?_' Molly worried with a sad expression. John just got quiet, still standing string in his place, facing her. There were a hundred things he was keeping back from saying to Molly. He wouldn't allow himself to say them. Not before, and not now.

Molly had seen that stoic pained look before, more than once. It usually preceded the abrupt ending to their conversation. In these occasions, Molly couldn't help but to feel guilty. That in her Reichenbach secrecy to keep Sherlock protected there was something that got broken inside John.

Molly would have assumed that John would punch Sherlock (metaphorically or literally) upon his return, and lose his blind trust on the man. In reality, John had indeed punched Sherlock, but never lost the trust on his mad friend. He had lost trust on himself as Sherlock's friend. Loyally, John would remain at Sherlock's side for as long as he could be of use to the grand detective. But there was a damaged part of John sabotaging himself now.

'He shouldn't have gone', said John, not really meaning it. Then he added bluntly: 'Sherlock is like a dog with a bone when he's got a mystery. He won't abandon it. In the end, I don't think he got any good leads out of my rescue. It must have been a waste of his time.'

Molly gulped. She could scream at the blond man, she could grab him and shake him, so frustrated she felt. Why was Sherlock so incapable of just having stopped being the detective for a bit, and rescue John for John's sake, undeniably? No more of that nonsense multitasking?

'Most of all', John carried on like nothing much, 'he should have stayed with you, Molly. You came for his help and he should have stayed by your side. He won't ever say it, but I will: I'm sorry he left you alone, Molly', he apologised as if it was his own fault.

That was just too much for Molly. Stepping angrily on the floor, she walked across the room towards John and halted an inch away from the very stunned former soldier. Her closed fists shaking by her side, she hissed: 'What Sherlock did, he did to protect you, John. If you ever doubt that, just remember the Reinchenbach case.'

John smirked bitterly, not at all impressed. 'I do remember it. Only too well.'

(John was impossible!) 'He wanted to protect you.'

John's smirk turned self-depreciative as he slowly tilted his head sideways. 'Was that when he jumped off in front of me or in the two years he let me visit an empty grave?'

'It was during those two years that his lie kept you alive, John. You were followed, studied, for signs of knowledge about Sherlock's whereabouts. Every time you went to visit an empty grave, someone was eavesdropping to judge your sincerity as you spoke towards a headstone. Every time they got convinced you didn't know the truth, it kept you safe a while longer.'

'How do you know I...'

'Sherlock told me about that the day you asked him not to be dead.'

John faced away briskly, hurt that his sincere speech of loss and pain had been broadcasted to Molly, and who knew to whom else? (Mycroft? His men?)

'It was the assuredness that you were okay that kept Sherlock alive and focused. In the end, that allowed him to come back home.'

'I wasn't _okay_', he despised under his breath.

'Yes. I know. But I lied', she sustained, bravely. 'I lied to you, I lied to Sherlock as well. Both lies were the only words I could have uttered that kept you both going.'

'Hm?'

'Had I told you the truth, it'd have crushed you. Your pain was too raw, John.'

John's jaw just clenched tighter.

'I would have been happy for him to be alive. How can you doubt that?'

'As it is, after three years from St Bart's, you're still shattered.'

'I'm fine', he retorted, angrily.

'You're lying to protect yourself', she was blunt. Sadly, she didn't seem to be able to reach John. All her finally freed words seemed to be bringing further pain, instead of healing by pushing out into the light old trapped dark ghosts.

With one last effort, Molly recalled: 'He kept speaking to you, when you weren't there. When I visited him, I mean.'

That brief weekend getaway to Paris, John recalled. It had seemed slightly adventurous for homely Molly Hooper at the time, but John had thought nothing more of it.

'He has full conversations with people who aren't in the room. He often did, at Baker Street.'

'I only ever heard him addressing you, John, just as if you were in the room.'

'Old habits.'

She frowned, recalling: 'This time it was different from the old days. It was like he sensed your answers as well. This time he had full conversations with you. I don't think he did that before. I think he missed you that much.'

'I was a helpful tool in a few of his cases, a sounding board, Molly.'

'And when he had to leave you behind, he carried them on, pretending you were there. He never had me, or Greg, as an imaginary friend, John. Only you filled that gap.'

John's face was painfully breaking. 'What do you mean?' he whispered.

'You gave Sherlock the strength to come back.'

'No, I—'

She cut him off: 'He came back because he heard you ask it to his grave. He hadn't intended to do so. He had it all planned out. Greg would believe in the official report of his death, being a police officer he wouldn't have doubt the medical examiner's report. Mrs Hudson would buy into it as well, she always knew you had tough dark times. You, John, you wouldn't accept it. You've seen the worst, and every comeback after it. If you had just heard it, glanced through the medical report, you wouldn't have accepted it to be true. You might just spend your life searching for him. And then what? Either you got the attention of Jim's people and they finished you off on their way to Sherlock, or you'd waste away your life in the pursue of a ghost.' Molly shook her head, tiredly. 'I'm not defending Sherlock having jumped off from a rooftop, dramatically, in front of you. I couldn't ever do that. I'm telling you that he chose such a dramatic and definite visual way of breaking apart from all of us and put you there as a spectator because it was the only way he could convince you of the lie. And it worked', she smiled sadly, 'although I don't know to which extent, if you went on to his grave to ask him to come back. Maybe a part of you actually knew. Maybe you just couldn't accept it, no matter how rational you tried to be. I know Sherlock wanted to return before the time, and Mycroft managed to convince him in the end that he needed to keep going to protect you and us.'

'Mycroft?' John repeated in a murmur.

'You see, Moriarty had shattered Sherlock's image in London, maybe even in the world. Mycroft had a whole new identity planned for his brother, far away, a fresh start. But then Sherlock heard your request and realised it wasn't just selfishness his desire to remain Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street. He fought for you, what he had selflessly given up for himself, John. You're the reason why he came back. Not me. And you may never truly forgive me, no matter how much rationally you wish to do so. But I'll feel I've done you right a bit more now I told you all of this, John.'

The soldier remained frozen to the spot, trembling rounded blue eyes and troubled brow were the only signs that he had drunk every single word of Molly's speech. Where had all those words gone inside him was a different matter altogether.

'I was never that angry at you, Molly', John said at last. 'I was grateful, for all you gave Sherlock.'

She nodded. She knew John had tried, every single day after the discovery of the lie, to rationalise and forgive her. And the moment she had come to the clinic to ask for his help, he had offered it generously, meaningfully. (John was a good man.) He hadn't held her ransom to her lie, but he had his best friend. She could see it clearly even if John couldn't.


	22. Chapter 22

_A/N: I realised I left Greg out of the story's summary, it wasn't intentional. Greg has been an important part of this story as well. So here's a chapter where Greg gets exasperated quite a few times, as is his trademark interaction with Sherlock. Let's face it; Sherlock exasperates anyone (and John exasperates Sherlock). -csf_

* * *

-ooo-

'It's not Jim', Sherlock stated drily. Greg glanced at him with a certain disdain. It was almost as if Sherlock had wished for the mad villain to have been the late Jim Moriarty. As if being _bored_ was to the Baker Street's genius effectively more important than the safety of London from the hands of a madman with an unfathomable agenda. 'Of course it's not Jim!' Sherlock insisted, despising the preposterous idea. Behind them, John just frowned, trying to decipher Sherlock's deduction with the habit of an old partnership.

Greg defended: 'It was you who gave us all that idea, Sherlock! Molly talked about this online Moran stalker and you said he knew too much. You both were adamant that he knew things that only Jim Moriarty could have known.'

Sherlock nodded briefly, playing aloof. 'I miscalculated.'

'Care to explain to us, finally?'

The detective sighed and gave in. 'Jim Moriarty built an impressive network of contacts, a web of criminals at his demand, borderline an underground empire. No matter his abilities as the CEO of this consulting criminal enterprise, we know he was a maniac genius sociopath with extensive acquired skills that allowed him to pretend to be the caring harmless Richard Brook alias. He was that good an actor. And because he liked to give a touch of reality to all his lies, he even gave that profession to the alias that Molly dated briefly. But in his core, he was very different. He knew it too. He was a psychopath. As a high functioning sociopath myself, I failed to recognise that even though Jim was incapable of truly relating and trusting another human being, it didn't deter others from felling... some sort of... _attachment_ to him.' Sherlock awkwardly avoided looking in the direction of anyone else now.

John reminded him at once, as if part of an old recurrent speech: 'As a doctor I can assure you you're not—'

Sherlock snapped his gaze towards him, all shyness gone. From a cold moral high ground he assured his friend: 'I know who I am. It doesn't take a genius, and therefore a genius wouldn't miss it. I've diagnosed myself at an early age. I've researched and read about it. I educated myself to what was apparent to the rest of the world to see. Saved me a lot of trouble too.'

John's expression grew heavier. 'You really believe that? Okay, okay, then explain this to me. A true sociopath wouldn't have gone out there, risking his life, to save mine.'

Sherlock shrugged, insistent on his embedded self-labelling and cold distancing. 'It got me new leads in my case. And you occasionally come in handy.'

John smirked in active defiance, confident and almost amused. 'Yeah, right. Because you can't get another retired army doctor to come play real life Cluedo with you', he defended sarcastically.

'Don't be thick', Sherlock patronised, with an uncomfortable hint of a glance around the room.

John just sniggered, but allowed Sherlock his privacy. That was a conversation to be had, definitely, later on. (As many times as it took.)

Greg resumed the conversation, with a concerned expression: 'Are you telling us that Jim Moriarty had a sidekick? We found no trace of a direct accomplice, Sherlock.'

'It's the only possible deduction. Whenever you rule out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. I miscalculated on what I assumed to be an extravagant alias, the online avatar cover of Jim. Captain Moran may actually be a façade much closer to his true identity. The inside information he gathered about Molly proves he must have been close to Jim, been his right hand man in the shadows. There were details of conversation, habits, he couldn't have known otherwise. And Molly took her time in noticing this. Moran fed her these little discrepancies from their third conversation online forwards.'

John murmured, absorbed in the distance, blank expression: 'So while I was mourning the loss of a friend, so did this Moran.'

Greg glanced at the doctor at once, heavy brow clouding his face.

John went on, in a strange voice, to no one in particular: 'If Moran was in on the Reichenbach plan, and then got news of Jim's demise, why wouldn't he search for revenge?'

It was Sherlock's turn to turn to John, as he himself was going pale. Had the former soldier tried to go out and get himself in trouble with the remnants of Jim's team in memory of his friend? If Reichenbach had turned out differently, with Jim Moriarty alive and the winner, he would hardly have gone after John. The doctor had always been a pawn in Jim's eyes, a common boring man, too small to waste time on. Not interesting enough on his own, Sherlock was sure. And, of course, Sherlock had always played down John's importance and value just to prevent this, to safeguard John as much as humanly possible after John had declared himself to the world as the sidekick of the great Sherlock Holmes in his personal blog.

Sherlock now realised the obvious. Upon his fake death, John had spiralled through all phases of mourning, including the dangerous anger one. He should have been angry at Sherlock himself, but John had kept his faith in his lost friend throughout. Instead, he had tried to get himself in avenging troubles for his late friend.

In the end, undermining all that Sherlock had worked for. As Sherlock had left John behind with the certainty that the choice he was making was keeping John safe, it was John himself that was ready to get himself in trouble.

How long had that phase lasted, or how painfully long it had been, was more than he expected John to share anytime soon. There were just things they didn't talk about. John had his gaze bravely fixed on Sherlock, defiantly silent and devoid of emotion. Sherlock took that as a personal challenge. (No, John couldn't do this.) He couldn't go around keeping secrets from his best friend. From his shaving cream brand to his army medals, Sherlock had always found out everything about John without the need for the reserved man to speak it out. John should have known that by now.

Maybe Greg could shed some light.

'So, you think he was around during Reichenbach?' John insisted. 'Could he have been one of the snipers?'

'Possibly. It was the sort of job to be given to someone of the highest trust level.' Sherlock's eyes widened at that point. As always, John was the conductor of light. Again, he had lead Sherlock to a breakthrough he didn't even phantom himself. 'I have since gathered that Mrs Hudson's threat had been posed by an ex-convict that came into Baker Street with the pretence to fix something. He did an appalling job and soon after Mrs Hudson had to hire another handy-man to redo the job. You, Greg', he turned to face the detective inspector with intensity in his gaze, 'you were a tougher problem to solve. Could have been a sniper shot through the window, could have been an inside job in the division.'

'No, my men—' Greg started, angrily. Sherlock cut him off, with a wave of the hand:

'Your men are human, and can be manipulated, coerced or rewarded into action. Don't be naive!'

'I assure you—'

'In John's case there was an actual sniper from across the street. I could see the flicker of concealed movement in the widow of a flight of emergency stairs. I just couldn't see the face of the man who was about to shoot John dead in the street bellow.'

John shivered. He felt cold, as he listened to Sherlock and, for once, he felt it was so easy to understand what it must have been like for his helpless friend.

Greg summarised: 'He was Moran.'

Sherlock shook his head. He got away from Mycroft's men, but DNA analysis picked up a different identity. Which leaves us with your shooter, Greg. An ex-army man would fit the role. The renegade sniper transforms himself in a quiet law abiding citizen, that in the Police force has almost unlimited access. That is the position in which I would expect to find Jim's right hand man. Not shooting John's head off from across the street.'

John faked a sideways smile to accompany the blunt words of his genius friend. No sugar coating there, as they both preferred. Greg, on the other hand, was shaking his head, stubbornly unconvinced that one of his men, who he trusted his life with, could double-cross him like that.

'No one left the force after your fake death, Sherlock.'

'He was too smart to do that. Keeping the privileged position would help him rebuild Jim's team from the ashes. As I strived to burn it down to the ground, he was gathering strength and power to rebuild it differently.'

'Took him a while.'

'He was in no rush. Cold-hearted revenge served him best. From the way he chose to approach me, by using Molly to make me aware he knew how I did it in Reichenbach, he's demonstrating he'll have the patience to weed out all my support team before moving in on me. We are dealing with a dangerous man. Jim was an impulsive genius. Moran is a cold calculating man that compensates his lack of brilliancy with long deep planning. What we have seen so far is only the tip of the iceberg. He has had his time to plan and execute far more. I expect we'll be seeing his actions develop soon enough.'

'You almost sound happy, Sherlock', Greg warned him.

'Shouldn't I be?' he pretended not to care. 'All of this, done for me.'

'Yeah, well, maybe keep in mind that we're on this as well?' the police officer protested.

Sherlock hummed an undefined answer, playing distracted. Under his wondering gaze, he kept John under close scrutiny. There were answers that John would have to provide. Only John could. Well, best not to drag it out, right?

'John, the man is about our age, fit, military background, probable exposure to high levels of violence so lightly likely to have been in combat at a war zone. The levels of premeditation suggest he left the army voluntarily and expanded his field of action to modern day London. His association with Jim Moriarty came most probably by the genius himself having singled him out of the crowd after small works Moran did in the city. Jim saw his potential and offered him a different work, one that fed his appetite for meaningless violence. Jim once said he didn't like to get his hands dirty. Moran was the man for that. He takes pleasure in doing so. In the power and control.'

John nodded curtly. 'Why are you telling me this? You say he is one of Greg's men.'

'I think you may know the man.' Sherlock evaded all of a sudden. But John knew he had abruptly changed course. He just couldn't tell what Sherlock had been on about.

'Known him from the army, you mean?' John shook his head. 'We are a big lot, in the army, Sherlock.'

'Yes, right...' Sherlock silenced himself, lost in thought.


	23. Chapter 23

_A/N: Yeah, well, I still make periodic comebacks to this story... Been sorting out what I've got for posting. Everyone still out there deserves a medal for patience alone. (Thank you, I'm touched.) Just so you know, I'll type this all on my miniscule phone's keyboard. Feel free to assume your waiting is somewhat being avenged, I'll suffer through the process quietly and humbly. -csf_

* * *

-ooo-

Exhaustion had fallen on everyone by evening, like a well-timed magic act.

In an undisclosed location's safe house, Molly Hooper, forensic pathologist to St Bart's Hospital, was keeping herself busy by double checking that everyone in her team of generously volunteered protecting agents was okay. Well, as close to okay as they could be.

Mary Watson had been shot on the grounds of the first safe house, by the water mill. Which, of course, spoke very little good of safe houses in general, except naturally that the first safe house had been arranged by DI Greg Lestrade of Scotland Yard and, not even a day ago, Sherlock had announced his deduction that the agent of danger to them all had been posing as a decent police investigator at the Yard for the last four years, binding his time.

This new safe house had been arranged through Mycroft Holmes, a man who made no such minor mistakes. If ever there was safe ground, this would be it.

For some reason, Sherlock had hesitated to go directly to his brother from the start. Molly had asked him why, of course — only Molly was allowed to ask such questions —, but he had confided cryptically that he needed to keep Mycroft Holmes and John Watson as apart as possible, no more explanations added.

Molly walked the corridor by the Watson's room. Only Mary was inside, still awake, flipping through the pages of a book, distracted.

Lucky in her previous (undisclosed and secret) life, Mary had now been shot. Possibly for the first time, Molly sensed. At first, all of Mary's energy had been focused on her missing husband, with all the natural concerns a wife could have — or even more, if one is the wife of one of the Baker Street's duo. Molly was sure that all that concern had actually helped the former agent through, redirecting her pain and angst beyond herself. Now, with everyone reunited under Mycroft Holmes' careful watch (knowing briefly Sherlock's brother, Molly was prepared to believe his watch took literal tones to it, with secret cctv cameras indoors), Mary's need to face her own vulnerability had turned her mood sour, the last day's events taking their toll on her.

This would be a whole new Mary for Molly to get acquainted with — and in the end Molly decided to adjourn that _pleasure_. She'd leave Mary to the novel the pathologist had lend her, resting nicely.

Greg's room was next door. Actually, his door was almost closed shut, but in passing the corridor Molly could see the detective inspector's figure looming over pen and paper. Molly knew what this was about, such as she knew that Greg wasn't in a particularly talkative mood, as he elaborated a long list of names at Sherlock's request. Honestly, the whole procedure reminded Molly of an old-fashioned gangster's hit list. All good men but one. These were the names of fine, decent colleagues Greg worked with at the Yard. Sherlock was sure one of them was an ugly forefront for Moran, and also the source of these attacks on Molly, on all of them.

It was an ungrateful task for the detective inspector, one that challenged the respect and trust he had on his own people for the sake of catching one rat, one undeserving miserable backstabbing fake. If there ever was a nightmare task for DI Greg Lestrade, this must be it, Molly fancied with empathy for the gentle friend. Yet, it was unavoidable.

Molly retreated once more. Only two more elements to go, possibly the two more volatile ones.

She had taken to herself the duty of assuring everyone's wellbeing that evening, knowing that the reason they were brought together, extracted from their usual lives, was herself. If kind care was all she had to offer, so be it. She'd fight with her own weapons to make things right for everyone.

The living room had a soft glowing light at the end, and the door fully opened. Quietness permeated the space, much like it would have at 221B Baker Street. Different scenario, same functioning from the two men who had once strived at making Mrs Hudson's space a wacky, creative, against-all-odds warm home.

Molly knocked softly all the same, then entered, taking the atmosphere in. Sherlock was one the middle of some scientific project using resources from John's medical kit and the doctor was an immobile lump on the long sofa at the end.

She'd glance at her wristwatch. Amazingly she hadn't lost or misplaced it in all the overwhelming events of late. It allowed her to roughly calculate:

'John's been asleep for eleven hours now, Sherlock.' Her comment was tainted with worry, as she glanced again at the sleeping soldier in the long sofa, covered with a light blanket.

Closer to her, the genius snapped his attention towards Molly at once. He seemed to ponder her worry, her care, before acknowledging, though demurely: 'He does that sometimes. Yet, he always insists I'm the one with the irregular sleeping patterns.'

Molly smiled to acknowledge his critique, but wouldn't let it pass. 'You've been going about that experiment almost as long. Over ten hours to be precise. Do you have anything to say on that?'

Sherlock nodded slowly, still pretending to be fully engaged in his little science project — luckily, it wasn't smelly, noisy or explosive as per usual.

'He sleeps better when I'm around', Sherlock said as he counted drops of acid from his pipette. 'It decreases his chances of nightmares from one in eight to one in fifty-four. Don't know why, but it's verifiable statistically.'

Molly blinked, then finally allowed a small smile to blossom in her lips. 'Are those estimations, or did you actually do the maths?'

(Kept a calendar, secretly.) He avoided an answer, carefully.

'I'm actually working on a new blog post, Molly. Remember my blog? You've subscribed it. It's not as successful as John's, but much more accurate...'

Molly took a seat in the empty chair by the detective's side, ignoring the confused look spreading in his features. 'Sherlock, does he know you do this for him?'

(Of course not.) 'I don't always sit close by when he falls asleep out of his bed', the detective reproached her, derisively. 'Only if there's research for a case, or science, or the violin. John sleeps through all those just fine.'

'Somewhere in his sleeping mind he knows he's not alone... That's a very kind gesture, Sherlock. You're a good friend.' Molly knew this was not the kind of thing Sherlock heard as often as he deserved. And even I he did, he might not believe it. And, sure enough...

'I'm a high functioning sociopath', Sherlock reminded her at once. 'It comes with the "high functioning" bit', he actually mapped out the small portion of air between index finger and thumb. She smirked, unconvinced. He rolled his eyes childishly at her.

'Maybe he should know', she stated softly in one last effort, her face lit with that strange emotion Sherlock had learnt to associate with her dealings with him alone.

'That would defeat the purpose, would it not?' he snapped, angrily.

Again protecting John, she noticed with a bitter smile. Well, the good thing was Sherlock had found a worthy friend. The one person Sherlock had welcomed into his heart as a best friend was equally an emotional blunder, even if more socially apt, and as pure in his friendship as inexperienced Sherlock was. Together they made the perfect bonding that fuelled that incongruous dangerous lifestyle of theirs.

'So, what's the title of your next blog post?' Molly enquired softly so that their conversation would not awake the third person in the room.

-ooo-

Mycroft Holmes sat at his desk, at the far end of his office, just under a flattering painting of Her Majesty in all its weighty tradition and symbolism. Like a humble servant at the feet of an Empire...

... Or pulling part of its strings, John Watson thought as he was shown in by distant goddess-like Anthea.

'Err... Thanks', he told her, stiffly, as if he was still pondering what to say and how to say it. Like a man with an uncomfortable mission, Mycroft noticed even without looking up from his papers yet.

_Ah, Soldier John_; Mycroft identified easily. Daring, dangerous, eager to get into trouble. Mycroft Holmes could have laid out all the next minutes' predictable conversation, he felt. Such a waste of time, that social constrictions forbade him to do just that (Sherlock's methods were too crude for Mycroft)... Tea, maybe. No, no, not cake, not this time.

'I trust the limousine was to your liking, John?'

The blondish man looked up, startled, then his blue eyes — only too expressive — flashed to the side as he recalled his ride there. John Watson had requested an interview. For the sake of his little brother, Mycroft had obliged.

'Yeah, it was... fine.' John wasn't making any motion towards a chair. So, he expected to be brief. Or prefered to keep himself slightly uncomfortable, on his toes.

'I'm assuming you kept this meeting secret from my brother?'

John got his hands buried deep in his pockets. 'Well, you know him, he'd find a way to come along.'

'Doubtful', Mycroft arched his brows with resentment as to a family gathering for no good reason. 'I am a busy man, John', Mycroft pressed on. International wars, royal family business, embassy parties to attend — such an exhausting area of chores.

Then Mycroft looked up in a snap. John wasn't answering. No, he wasn't Soldier John anymore. Whichever one of John Watson's multiple personalities faced him at the time, it a fairly intelligent one, and it kept Mycroft engaged.

John finally carried on, in a jittery, almost maniac energy: 'Can you really not guess, Mycroft? Maybe I really am getting good at this spying business... Mycroft, Sherlock was right, of course. You probably know his deductions on who Moran must be and how I must have encountered him before... _I know who Moran is. _A piece of scum, if I had to describe him. I served in Kandahar alongside him till one pretty, sunny day he double-crossed us all.' John was smiling bitterly, holding Mycroft's steel piercing gaze easily. 'Sold out our unit and went to work for the other side. More profitable, I should imagine, although I'd say the danger also elicited a response in him. Bottom line, Mycroft, I know Moran better than any of your minions can find out with interviews and reports in the army. I can give you the information I won't give Sherlock.'

'And why would you be keeping information from my brother?' Mycroft questioned, attentive gaze on the shorter man. Not for the first time, John was surprising him; something he wouldn't share easily. (No Holmes ever would.)

'Because, just like you, I want to protect him. I don't want to give Sherlock reasons to set off on a lone revenge act. His web-tearing days are over. It was too dangerous and it took too much of a toll on him, physically and mentally. This is something I can do, this is my turf. Moran and I will play in an equal field. Two ex-soldiers in one last battle. It's been coming for a long time.'

Mycroft finally recognised what it was about and, to his credit, he didn't particularly like it. This danger seeking soldier was on the right course to get himself hurt. And if that only troubled slightly Mycroft's plans, it would be a tragedy for his younger brother. Far worse than Redbeard's disappearance had been when Sherlock was little.

'No, you're still not getting it right', John interrupted, crossing his arms in front of him. 'I did come to you, and it wasn't because I'm looking for a pat in the back and a credit card in the pocket. What I want from you is what I can't get from Sherlock at the moment. I need your brains, Mycroft. I require your help in devising a plan, a good plan. I intend to come back to my wife, my job, and my friends. What I need to do to keep them safe, I'll do. You must have read my army file. You know what I'm capable of. You know I'm not bluffing.'

(Doctor John, the selfless nature.)

Mycroft nodded slowly, respectfully. Only one small kink in John's plan. 'You're asking me to be loyal to you over my brother.'

'You don't need to lie to him', John shook his head, 'Just delay the information. You've done that before.'

Mycroft cleared his throat. 'I appreciate the genius nature of your plan, John, in trusting the genius to me. But you should know, John, Sherlock doesn't ask me much since he's become an adult. He's far too busy proving he doesn't need me, in fact. He did, however, ask me a favour pertaining you, John.'

'If this is about my Browning when I lost the other one, or that cab the day it was pouring rain and I was soaked through outside—'

(Just John, the painfully human side.)

'John', Mycroft called, appealingly. 'Sherlock asked me to protect you.'

John frowned. 'In what circumstances was that?' he tried to make sense of it.

'Broadly speaking: always. You have been the closest thing he has had to a real friend in a long time. Your plans, John, should I help you along, would certainly collide with my promise and, as a Holmes, we don't promise things easily. We mean our promises, John.'

'You couldn't care less if I'm alive and breathing', John despised, coldly.

(Maybe Mycroft had mellowed indeed, he pondered.) 'My brother, however, feels differently, I'd assume', was all Mycroft Holmes conceded.

'So you won't help me', John insisted, angrily.

'Must I always repeat myself with you, John?' he sighed, aghast. 'The solution to this predicament, John, lies exactly in the opposite direction.'

'You want to steer my baby brother into doing the legwork for you, again', John retorted in full blown anger.

(Protective John, the common thread.)

The formal man shook his head. 'I want you all to work together. I've learnt something from the Reichenbach's aftermath too, John. I learnt Sherlock produces better results when teamed up with his chosen inferior teammates.'

'He needs us, you mean', John translated, still angry.

'If you will.'

'Haven't you heard that I'm trying to protect him?' John raised his voice again.

'Loud and clear, John. You see, turns out I'm doing the same', Mycroft exhibited one last dead-eyed smile. 'Goodbye, John. Don't forget to close the door on your way out.'

John laughed drily, not moving away. 'Fine, I'll go on without your help then', he insisted, arms crossed in front of him.

Mycroft actually rolled his eyes. 'Stubbornness is sometimes an understatement when it comes to you, John. My brother has, however, properly trained me in the art of withstanding such an ordeal.'

'I can't go. I need your help yet. I've got a plan.'

'You need military backup, Captain Watson, I presume.'

'No', he assured, big rounded innocent blue eyes. 'No, I need to set up an encounter with Moran. Oh, and there will be a little show and tell, Mycroft. I'll need Jim Moriarty's remains.'

Mycroft leaned back on his chair as his only admission of bring taken aback, surprised by John Watson.

'That, I'm afraid, is the only thing I cannot give you, John.'

'You don't trust me?'

'I cannot give you what I do not have', Mycroft evaded.

John's expression was priceless.


	24. Chapter 24

_A/N: Polite reminder that Mary here is my own version of Mary's evolution. -csf_

* * *

-ooo-

'Is Jim alive, then?' Mary asked, frowning deeply.

'I don't know', John stated drily, as he paced furiously in a tight circle around the small bedroom. The majority of the household still asleep, only he and Mary still awake. It hadn't taken long for Mary to make her John spill the beans on his secret outing.

'Surely, if anyone knows, it's Mycroft Holmes.'

'Yeah', John gave a strange intonation to his broken voice.

'It's a simple question: is Jim Moriarty alive? Did you ask him, John? Really asked him?' she insisted, as she leaned forward, leg still outstretched, sitting atop the bedspread, supported by pillows.

'He's a cryptic man', John grimaced.

'Okay', Mary started, not giving it a rest at all. 'Does that mean Mycroft knows that Jim is dead but doesn't know where his remains are, or that he doesn't know whether Jim is dead or alive? I mean, Sherlock told you Jim died on that rooftop, but he was frazzled after what he had just witnessed, Sherlock could be forgiven for mistaking Jim's—'

'Will you stop calling him _Jim_ like an old friend?!' John had stopped short and shouted on the spot, stiff and closing his eyes tight. He immediately checked himself, mumbling heartfelt apologies, while she could see he was shaking minutely his left hand. The old twitch had returned, faithful to the frustration and inaction times.

Immediately tentative steps were heard from the corridor and a few seconds later a sleep-drowsy Greg was peeking through the half open door.

'I heard shouting. I'm next door, you know... You two are okay?'

John nodded dismissively, still worked up. Greg looked over at Mary, who smiled apologetically and in complicity.

'John and Mycroft had a domestic', she fessed up with a head shake and bitting her bottom lip through a smile. 'I don't think John wan.'

The former soldier threw the pair a dark look. Greg was fast to identify the dark energy looming over the usually quiet man. 'Why don't I call Sherlock over?' was what came into mind.

'You all have a party while you are at it!' John spat out and in two steps he was out the door, banging it shut behind him. Greg searched for Mary's expression once again. She just smiled again, nose scrunched.

'He's becoming more and more dramatic every day', she pointed out lovingly. Suddenly Greg wasn't so sure whether to smile or frown. He probably did both.

'I'll try to have a word with John', he settled for, in the end, as a retreat.

Lately there was something about Mary that left Greg uncomfortable too often. He had never noticed how alike Sherlock she was, up until she had got hurt. Mary allowed herself to be more cold now, more abrasive, incisive. And what disturbed Greg the most was this instinctive notion that he was seeing more of the real Mary now than before. He could see the appeal of this Mary to John — in so many ways a repetition of his lost friend's traits when they had met —, but Greg also worried if this was the right Mary for John. He could have more easily imagined John paired up with a soft touched, sweet caring, vulnerable wife for the long run. John enjoyed being the protector, after all. Not this cold-headed ex-CIA assassin. Well, Greg could definitely see what had drawn John to this particular Mary (the adrenaline rush was there). But was it enough in the long run?

'I do love him, you know', Mary commented as if she had just read Greg's mind. Like Sherlock had done so often that Greg had come to accept that he was _readable_ by some people. He guessed Mary was just one of those people.

'He loves you too', Greg told her, as if with those words he could imprint the wish that she wouldn't hurt his friend. (John had been through enough already in his life.)

'Hope so. Lately we've been fighting so much more.' She smiled sadly, bravely.

Greg smiled as well, a smile of a man who knows the world and the human heart. He reminded her, in the simplest of logics, as he would have done for Sherlock — Mary and Sherlock's similarities so much more noticeable: 'That just shows he cares. He wouldn't be upset if he didn't care.'

'Anger is not what I want from my husband, Greg.'

The DI shrugged. Mary just might have chosen the wrong former soldier, then. John was definitely prone to some anger outbursts, mostly harmless, but noisy and a nuisance. Especially when he was the most time without his best friend's stabilising influence. John was also a deeply sensitive man under that cover of roughness, Greg knew. He was the one that had taught Sherlock how to use his heart. 'I'll try to reason with John', Greg promised, leaving as well.

Mary just sighed in frustration.

Greg would find John at the far end of the living room, as if he had gone into hiding behind Sherlock, childishly daring Mary or Greg to bring up an argument in front of the detective, disturbing his scientific experiment with possible volatile results.

Greg just sighed. Like dealing with a couple of kids, the Baker Street duo.

'You have been thinking', Sherlock recognised from behind his pipette, hardly a look over to Greg yet. 'Is it the case that's bothering you?'

'The case?' Greg frowned.

'Yes, the case. This. Us. Now. Here.' Sherlock marked every word with a flash of briskness in his eyes. 'What else would you call it?'

'Dunno', Greg mumbled, rewinding. Well, yes, he had a doubt. May not be the time or the place, but catching hold of a talkative Sherlock was so rare, so... 'Why Molly in the first place? Figured that one out yet?' Greg asked, straight to the point, with the ease of a seasoned police officer, taking a seat by the younger man's side, just as he could have taken out notepad and pen at a crime scene.

'Because she's Sherlock's pal', instead came the answer from the sulky doctor at the end of the room. 'Moran saw what Moriarty couldn't — the human connection. He knew I was left out on the Reichenbach's fall prank. He saw where Jim had miscalculated. He realised I wasn't the loyal sidekick in on the plan. I was the pawn, placed at the street bellow as a spectator. Given the end result, Moran went over me to the one that actually mattered, Molly.'

Greg looked back at Sherlock, thinking he would say something — a correction, an excuse, an apology. He was taken aback by the sight of a pale uncomfortable detective, with an uncertain quality to his green eyes that made him look too young and frail. Not at all what Greg expected to see. In one side Sherlock was looking the most vulnerable he had seen him in a while, and on the other side John was looking all alight with a dark energy on his face. If there ever was a tense moment between those two, this was it.

Greg cursed the moment he had started it, _this_. They were solving a "case", Sherlock called it, based on dynamite. Still, it was finally out there for the world to see, Greg figured. The adjourned talk those two had never had about Reichenbach.

It was as if John's pain had returned, fully forced, with a vicious kick, for Sherlock to watch. (Greg had witnessed it only for too long, and had wished never to witness it again.) The pain of hurt and betrayal. And it was distressing for Greg to watch now Sherlock take the blow with such a quiet stoicism, not even a meek effort at self-defence. He was willing to let himself get bashed however many times it took to abate the former soldier's anger. And that made it quite clear in Greg's eyes that Sherlock didn't want to lose John. As much as Greg felt for the man who had crumbled to bits by the dramatic loss of his friend, he wouldn't now stand and watch John become this ugly shadow of himself, exerting revenge over the man who had learnt his lesson, surely. Sherlock had done things the wrong way (Greg couldn't tell which would have been the right way, but then again he wasn't reputed as a genius), but Sherlock had also done it for the right reasons.

'John, shut up!' were the words that came flying out of Greg.

The sulking soldier just asked, coldly, as if to finish the argument: 'Why me, Sherlock?'

Sherlock looked at John for the first time. (New question, never asked before, not the sort John would ask. Mary's influence, probably, to be investigated.)

He answered clearly, not a moment wasted: 'Because in your blog you had explicitly told the world you mattered. Molly thought she didn't and told Jim that much, over and over again... with illustrated examples. You could have done the same, but in your thick skin, you always forgave me. I couldn't ask for your help because you were being watched. She wasn't anymore. That's basically why, John. Cold reasoning and strategy.'

'You must have known', John whispered. 'It'd destroy me.'

'No', Sherlock assured, on a warm rich tone of voice. 'It wouldn't. You are John Watson', he justified simply, full of what Greg could only describe as faith.

'It really has', the doctor murmured. Sherlock shook his head convincingly, in a desperate maniac energy of his, strong gaze locked on John's.

'You taught me sometimes it feels like the end of the world when it's not, John. I expected you to remember that much.'

Greg could only guess what this was about, Sherlock's dark past threatening to reemerge once in a while.

John nodded slowly, at last. The cold bitter mask gone all of a sudden, his faith filled eyes stuck on his friend once more. John was a man of extremes, under the most stable look exterior, Greg was bitterly reminded.

John got up, then. 'Have you eaten yet?' he asked in a domesticity routine that would also surprise Greg. Sherlock shook his head, No.

Wasn't John's caring for Sherlock an apology in itself for his lash out earlier? An explicit proof that Sherlock hadn't been pushed away, that he was still his best friend, that he mattered so much? Through all of Baker Street's small arguments prior to Reichenbach, Greg had noticed John always left for work leaving Sherlock something to eat, always answered Sherlock's text messages even if to warn him he would turn his phone off if there were any more (he never did), always went to the laundry even with Sherlock's stuff, he would probably even get new strings for Sherlock's violin if they broke. No matter his mood, John was a man of actions and gestures. Throughout time, Sherlock had learnt to copy that silent display of loyalty, extending it to all his friends. In that sense, Reichenbach had been no different. Actions speaking louder than words.

'And my brother?' Sherlock inquired quietly as soon as John turned his back.

Both Greg and John turned their full attentions to the pipetting detective, but only Greg looked confused.

'Refused to help me', John reported, heavily.

'Good', Sherlock retorted lightly. 'Remind me to send him a thank you gift one of these days, John.'

'Git', Greg would have sworn he heard John say under his breath.


End file.
